For What It's Worth
by Anti-Materiel Girl
Summary: An Evil FLW finds a conscience after buying Charon's contract, and struggles to atone for her previous bad behavior. Part 3 and the definitive end of the Charon/Maleficent saga, 'Dark Hearts, Broken Souls.' Smuttiness, strong language, alcohol abuse, and violence abound. Lots of flashbacks, with plenty of ghoul love. A love story with frequent smutty interludes. Rated M, of course.
1. The Beginning

**The first few chapters were beta'd by the lovely Victorygin! If you like my stuff, I urge you to check out her work!**

 _Maleficent_

"Charon – I'm dying."

Both of us sit on the driver's seat of the little wagon that we use to take goods to market, me at the reins. One of our Brahmin pulls it along at a leisurely pace. I usually don't go to market - but he insisted that I come, to see yet another doctor, to get yet another opinion.

My body is shutting down. I've lived a hard life. In the wastes, sixty-four is well past the average life span. The radiation, the wounds, the smoking, the drinking, the stress – all of it took its toll.

"How long do you have?" he asks, hesitantly.

"Six months. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more."

I glance over at him. He's quiet, hands balled into fists, teeth clenched, eyes closed. _He doesn't want to lose me._

I don't want to hurt him, but he must give up hope of a cure. I can't take too many more of these trips. "The pain will get worse. We need to stock up on Med-X." I haven't told him how bad it is. Virgil knows; has known for a long time.

His eyelids flutter – he can't cry. Ghoulification is apparently Hell on tear ducts. Their eyes seem to work fine, but they have to depend on radiation to heal them from time to time. Lubrication is a constant battle.

His voice is thick. "We'll have to tell Virgil."

 _Time to break the news._ "Virgil already knows."

"How?"

"He asked me, a couple months ago, how much pain I was in. I can't hide it from him." I admit.

"But you can hide it from me?" he asks, upset, angry.

"I couldn't bear to hurt you."

* * *

 _Virgil_

Mom and dad will be back home tonight. I'm worried…I don't know how he'll take the news. We hid it from him as long as we could. I even managed to do mom's chores in addition to mine, when the pain was bad enough.

I remember when I confronted her about it. Both of us were leaning on the fence, watching the Brahmin wander in their pen. "How bad is it, mom?" I asked.

At first, she tried to deflect, acting like she didn't understand my question. But she taught me well – I know better. I saw her pained expressions in the morning – the ones dad didn't see. The ones she made sure he didn't see. I found telltale signs of Med-X use – empty syringes hidden around the house, cotton balls in the trash, her dilated pupils after she came back from the outhouse in the morning.

I put a hand on her arm. "Tell me."

Her silver hair ruffled in the wind. She didn't look at me. "It's bad." She said. I pressed her. "I'm dying, Virgil." Shocked, I squeezed her arm reflexively. "Don't tell your father. I'll tell him, when the time is right."

She'd told him, shortly after. She didn't phrase it quite as bluntly as she did with me – dad had hope of a cure, that there'd be some way to save her; to keep her with us a little bit longer. This is the fourth doctor they've been to see. I doubt her prognosis has changed.

* * *

When I see them pull up, I know that she's finally told him. It's in his body language – slumped shoulders, hands clenched, eyes unfocused, staring at the ground. I wonder if he's angry at me for not telling him.

She meets my eyes. "Stable the Brahmin, please. Your father and I have to talk."

They go inside as I unharness Jessie and lead her to the barn.

I stand at the fence for a long while, leaning at the place where mom turned my comfortable existence upside-down. I'm only nineteen, but I feel as old as the hills.

I walk slowly towards the house. Before I mount the steps, I decide to look in the living room window, and I'm met with a sight that nearly breaks my heart.

Dad is curled up on the small sofa, head in mom's lap. He's gripping her leg tightly, as she strokes his cheek, the side of his head, running her fingers through the little hair he has left. Her face lifts, and she sees me through the glass. With a terse nod of her head, she tells me to take a seat on the porch, and wait.

He may be a strange dad – but he's the only one I've ever known. None of the other kids I knew had a ghoul for a father. He taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to booby-trap. He not only raised me, he trained me. Seeing his large frame curled up on a sofa, hanging onto mom for emotional support was shocking.

After a while, mom joins me on the porch, and settles into her chair. "He's sleeping now."

I ask her, "How long?"

"Six months. Maybe more, probably less."

I nod. We've known this for a while. I admit, I did hope for something different, a miracle – but I knew that it wouldn't happen.

"Virgil, I have to tell you the truth about your dad."


	2. Heart to Heart

_Maleficent_

I tell him about the contract. Charon and I had agreed not to tell anyone else, until I found someone that met his requirements, should the contract need to be…transferred. We intended to tell him later – but my impending death changes things. _Life is what happens when you have plans. I suppose death happens, too._ "He'll be yours after I pass, Virgil."

He sits in silence, stunned.

"You'll have to take care of him. He won't take it well." _The last time I left, he unraveled. This time, I won't be coming back._

 _Now for practical things._

"You'll have to order him to eat and sleep, because he probably won't do it on his own." His head jerks toward me, meets my eyes.

"Order…Dad?" he asks.

"Yes. It'll be hard at first, but you'll get the hang of it." _It was easy for me at first, but then again – I was very different._ "He is… incapable of suicide. But he will be reckless; put himself in harm's way in hopes of being killed." I glance at Virgil, who stares off into the darkness.

A tear rolls down my cheek. _Oh, how I wish things were different._

* * *

 _Virgil_

I don't know what to say. I've never questioned their relationship, but now my mind is working overdrive.

I realize that I'd never seen him make a pivotal decision on his own. Mom always handled the finances, the business transactions. Her suggestions to him had new meaning – thickly veiled orders, from someone who loves him too much to be direct.

Now I'll have to do that. Inherit him, like a piece of property. "Have you tried to free him?" I ask.

"It's impossible," She says. "Either way, he told me he doesn't want to be freed."

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

She explains, "He's long since accepted what he is. If you offer to try to free him, he'll probably refuse."

 _I'll have to talk with him about it later, when we're on our hunt tomorrow. If there's still a hunt tomorrow._

She pushes herself up, with a grunt of pain. "Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

* * *

 _Charon_

My worst nightmare come true…I'm losing her.

It was only a matter of time – both of us knew. But I had no idea it would be this soon.

I still love her – as much as I did on that morning on the balcony at Tenpenny. She may be older and frailer, but she is still mine, and I am still hers.

I rise from the couch, and go for a walk before they wake. The sun is rising; I let our Brahmin out a little early, watch them wander around their enclosure.

After a while, I hear a door close, gently. He's on the porch, waiting for me. He's strong, sure, brave – and my chest fills with pride for my son.

* * *

I remember when we first saw him. His little face smudged with dirt, deep brown eyes, darting from face to face nervously, clinging to his mother's neck. Mallie was in her early forties – forty-three or forty-four maybe. A bit long in the tooth for a caravan guard; we'd talked about retiring soon the night before. We were guarding a caravan, and a woman with a small child – not much older than a year – stopped, and begged the caravan for food, for a ride to the next settlement, anything.

The merchant had been assaulted with requests before – and he'd heard of bandits using women and children as bait in ambushes. We were on high alert, as he refused her any assistance.

But she followed us, almost obscured by the dust in our wake, carrying her child.

Mallie turned when the woman fell. She broke away from the caravan, toward the prostrate woman and her screaming boy. As always, I followed.

She reached down, touched the woman's neck, searching for a pulse. She looked up at me. "She's gone." We both looked at the child. Without someone to care for him, he'd die out here. Animals would get him, or he could starve to death or die of dehydration. The next town was miles away, and he could barely toddle.

Tears streamed down his dirty cheeks. His face was red, from sunburn and fear. He was probably hungry, too – with the desperate way his mother bartered, it had implied that she would sell her body too, if necessary. It would have been a hard sell – it was obvious she'd been going without food for some time.

The merchant was irate. "Let's go!"

"Just a minute!" Mallie yelled back at him. She looked at me. "What do we do? We can't just leave him out here." I took a deep breath. The decision that she made would change our lives forever.

"Leave the kid, and let's GO!" yelled the merchant.

"No!" she yelled back, defiantly. She picked up the baby, and said, "He's with me."

The merchant, of course, fired us as soon as we made it to the next settlement. At least he was generous enough to pay us what he owed us.

We found a room in a nearby inn. When she dug in her pack to pay, she handed the boy to me. He was warm, soft, restless – and a more than a little smelly. I cradled him in my arm, and he squirmed, reached up, clung to my neck, and hugged me. "Dada!" he said. _Dada?_ I looked at Mallie, helplessly. She smiled back at me, touched my arm, and led us to our room.

"What should we call him?" she asked. There was nothing on him or his mother – not even a first name written on their clothing. "He needs a name."

I sat on the bed to think, and then dig in my pack. I pull out _Dante's Inferno_ , the only book I kept from Tenpenny. "Virgil." I suggested. She smiled. "Like the poet. He'll lead us through Hell, and out again." She liked that.

She grinned at the child. "Hi, Virgil. We'll take care of you now. Don't worry."

Finding the town tolerant of our relationship, she inquired about property. She bought a small ranch outside town, where we farmed, hunted, and raised a small amount of Brahmin, with the help of our generous neighbors. We still had plenty of money left over – enough to live on for a long time.

I taught him how to hunt, how to fight, at Mallie's insistence.

I remember his delighted, gap-toothed smile after he shot his first mole rat, and how proud he was when we ate it for dinner.

I remember his shouts of frustration every time I tossed him to the ground during hand-to-hand practice.

I remember him prattling on about Wendy – a girl in a large family who lived on a farm down the road.

I remember punishing him, making him do some of my chores, for sneaking out at night to see her. Mallie told me that fathers were supposed to discipline their children. I suspect that she couldn't discipline him herself – he had her wound around his little finger pretty tight. So she ordered me to do it, subtly.

* * *

"Are you ready?" I call out.

"As ready as I'll ever be." He picks up his pack, and starts walking with me to the hills, north. We're hoping to catch an unwary bighorner. It's about that time of year.

"Mom told me about the contract." He blurts.

"I figured she did."

"So…she owns you." _She bought me, so…_

"In a way."

"But you love her?" He asks.

"Yes." _More than anything in the world, save you._ I feel my throat swell, I take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for not telling you, Dad. She told me she wanted to tell you herself." _She would have._

"It's okay, Virge. It's okay."

But it's not.


	3. Male Bonding

_Virgil_

We sit and talk; dad smokes, I whittle.

"You'll have to stop calling me Dad. At least around other people." He says.

I realize that never thought about that before. "Why?"

"Because they won't understand." I nod.

"Dad – uh, Charon – I've never ordered anyone before. Mom said – "

He puts a hand up. "Don't tell me what your mom said. It was between you."

"But – " I start.

"Son, keep it for yourself. It's yours." His voice thickens. "That memory belongs to you, not me."

He toys with the lighter, flicking it open with his thumb then flicking it back closed again with a jerk of his wrist. "Giving orders isn't hard. You just have to tell me what to do. There is no need to say 'I order you to –' but you can, if you want to. Just be direct, and look for loopholes."

"Loopholes?" I ask.

"Yes. Instead of telling me to eat, tell me what and how much to eat. Instead of telling me to rest, tell me to sleep for a specified period of time."

I sigh in frustration. "Dad, I'm not going to micromanage you."

"Your mother does…when she has to." We're both silent again. He finishes his cigarette, crushes the butt under the massive heel of one boot.

 _I have to ask._ "Dad – do you want to be free?"

"You mean, do I want you to try to free me? No. I have accepted who I am. It is best that you accept it too." I shake my head, unwilling to accept that anyone could turn down the possibility of freedom.

He continues. "Virge, following orders gives me a reason to live, a sense of purpose. You have to find your own purpose. For now, your mother is mine."

I hesitate, then decide it's now or never. "Dad…tell me about her. About mom. What was she like when you met her?"

He lights another cigarette, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. "When I met her, she was about your age." He pauses. "You wouldn't have recognized her."

* * *

 _Charon_

I didn't tell him everything. I'm a selfish bastard – they're my memories, I have every right to keep some to myself.

I debate with myself about telling him the bad things. His mother's dying – does he really need to hear that she was a slaver, that she was cruel to people, even to me, that she cut people up to feed the Darkness inside of her? I decide that she'd want him to know. She'd be angry with me if I lied to him.

"How long have you been together?" he asks. I have to think for a second. "About forty-five years."

"And you changed her?" he asks.

After a few seconds I reply, "To be honest…you changed her more than I ever could." He knows about his birth mother, about how she died in the dirt, desperate, behind a caravan, leaving him nothing – not even a name. He doesn't even remember her; she's just a story. A thin, sandy-haired woman carrying her precious little boy, frantic to find food, water, shelter.

 _Time to change the subject._ "You have to marry Wendy."

"But I – "

"But you what? You love her. I've seen the way she looks at you. Like your mother looks at me."

He squirms.

"Ask her. Marry her – so your mother can see you happy before she…" My heart clenches. _Jesus, no, don't think about that. Not right now._

He smiles sadly, nods.

"Let's get home, son. It's getting late."


	4. Pivot Point

_Maleficent_

A few days after we return from our trip, Charon and I are sitting, reading, when Virgil bursts through the door. "She said yes!"

I look at Charon, and he shrugs his shoulders. _You sly fox._ I knew that Virgil was courting Wendy, but was putting off proposing while he helped take care of me. Maybe he thought that he shouldn't be happy while I was suffering. I just couldn't find the words to bring it up. Evidently, Charon did. _What a difference a father can make._

"The wedding is next week. Her dad said he'd host!"

I start to rise, slowly, managing the pain in my chest; in my gut. "Mom, you don't have to –"

"Yes, I do." I hug him, tears in my eyes, tousling his mess of short, dark brown hair. _My boy is gonna be happy._

* * *

 _Charon_

The smile on her face makes my heart soar.

After I give her some pain medicine we lay in bed, talking, reminiscing. Her favorite memories, unsurprisingly, are of Oasis – our honeymoon. She was young, we had no cares, an abundance of freedom, and she jumped my bones every ten minutes or so. I have offered, since her pain started, to make love to her one last time. She refused – first out of self-consciousness, ashamed of her aging body – then later, because she was in too much pain. "I should have taken you up on your offer." She said.

She's getting worse – she's using more meds, and they aren't lasting as long. She rarely sleeps through the night. I ask her if she'd like an IV, and she says no. Not yet.

They call it "Wasteland Pain Syndrome" – unbearable pain followed by multiple organ systems failure, no known cause. Doctors think it has to be a combination of things – injury, stress, radiation, drug or alcohol abuse – all of which she was subject to.

I can't bear to see it. Sometimes, I want to leave, because I don't want to see her in any more pain. When I can't take it anymore, Virgil takes over, and I spend some quality time with the Brahmin.

* * *

The wedding is beautiful – Virgil is handsome in his best, Wendy is radiant in her mother's wedding dress. Mallie sits on my lap, watching everyone, beaming with pride. She refused extra medication today – she said she didn't want to feel stoned at her son's wedding.

She's hurting, I know she is.

I try not to think about it. Wendy approaches us. "Thank you."

Mallie says, "He's yours, now." With a smile, squeezing my hand.

They stay their wedding night at the inn in town. Wendy will be coming to live with us.

* * *

 _Maleficent_

I insist on supervising the digging of my own grave. I may not need it for a few weeks, but it's good to be prepared for the inevitable.

Wendy is in the house, cooking. Charon and Virgil take turns digging with our only shovel. When it's finished, Charon picks me up, and we head back inside. He sits me in a chair at the table – I don't eat much, but he knows I like to do what I can, before I can't do it anymore. Very soon, I'll be eating in bed, him feeding me.

I can't take this much longer. A last trip to the doctor confirmed it – Wasteland Pain Syndrome. It's always fatal, no known cause, and no cure.

* * *

 _It's time._

I've talked with Virgil. I'm at my limit. Only two months since the confirmation of the diagnosis, but the pain has become unbearable, even for me, and if I take any more pain medication at a time, I risk dying.

The last place I want to die is in the house.

I tell Virgil not to tell Charon what we're planning. His programming would kick in, and he'd try to save me, regardless of the pain I was in.

* * *

 _Charon_

She wants to go outside tonight, to look at the stars. I carry her to the hills, close to where Virgil and I were hunting, a couple months earlier. I spread out a blanket, and sit, her cradled in my arms. We talk for a long time. About our life together. About love. About Oasis. We look up at the stars.

Then she says she's sorry.

"Sorry for what?"

"Leaving you."

"But you came back."  
"No. You know what I mean." Tears glisten on her cheeks, her eyes sparkle. _She doesn't want to leave me anymore than I want to let her go._

"It's okay. I'm here. Everything's gonna be okay." I whisper, in her ear, rocking her back and forth.

"Can you do something for me?" she asks.

"Anything."

"Take care of him. Take care of Wendy."

I clutch her close to my chest, and she grunts in pain. "I'm sorry." I say, loosening my grip.

"It's okay. It'll all be okay soon." Her voice has a faraway, eerie quality that gives me pause. "Mallie – "

"I love you, Charon."

"I love you too." Then I kiss her, long and deep. _At least she can enjoy this._

I look at her face in the gloom, her eyes reflecting starlight. I'm so distracted that I almost miss the sound of something dropping from her hand to the blanket.

She gasps. "So…bright…" she says, as her eyes slowly close.

To my horror, I look down and see what she's dropped. A Med-X syringe. A big one. Too big.

* * *

 _Virgil_

I tell Wendy to stay home.

Five minutes after they leave, I grab mom's old combat knife and head out after them.

After fifteen minutes, I stop, and give them some privacy. I'll know if it worked soon enough. I sit down on a rock, and begin to whittle.

I settle into a rhythm when I hear a blood-curdling guttural scream. _She did it. Goddamn it, mom._

I run to the hills, as fast as my legs can carry me.

* * *

When I approach, he's crouched on the ground, clutching her lifeless body to his chest, rocking back and forth. _Why did I agree to this?_

"Dad, it's time." I hold out her combat knife, just like she told me to.

He whips his head in my direction, snarls, and pulls her closer. _Shit. That's all I need is for him to go feral. Lose both parents in one day._

I sit on a nearby rock, and give him some time.

I watch him kiss her forehead, then run his fingers through her hair, over and over again. When he appears to calm, I offer the knife to him, handle first.

As he grasps the hilt, his face goes slack. Slowly, he lays her down on the blanket, and starts to remove her blouse. _What?_

Before I can question him, he yanks back the left side of her blouse, and makes a clean, deep cut under her breast. He fishes around inside her for a second, and then produces a small cylinder, about two and a half inches long, which he then places in my hand. _Tell no one about the contract, she said. Not even Wendy._ I place it in my handkerchief and carefully pocket it.

"Let's take her home." I order.

He buttons her blouse, leaving spots of congealed blood on the front. He picks her up as if she weighs nothing, and trudges back to the house. I quickly gather up the blanket, the syringe, and the knife, and follow.


	5. Preparations

_Charon_

My programming swims in my head, fights with my love for her.

She's gone. Gone forever.

Virgil has the contract now. I serve him.

My legs feel like they're made of lead. I can see the silhouette of Wendy in the distance, a lantern in her hand. I do not want to go back. I do not want to see the bed we shared, to sleep in it again. I do not want to stay in this house anymore, this place, haunted with memories of her.

I can feel the heat slowly drain out of her body; think about all the times I'd curled up next to her, basking in her warmth.

I know why she did it. I know why she did it this way. Virgil had to help her – she couldn't have found that syringe on her own. It's the type we use for the Brahmin, something that she'd had him prepare for just this situation. She left nothing to chance.

She didn't want me to try to save her. If it happened at home, I would have been compelled to seize the medical supplies to attempt to save her, even if it meant hurting Virgil or Wendy to do so. Even if it meant her continuing on, in terrible pain.

I know It's selfish– but in pain or not, I want her back.

* * *

 _Virgil_

Wendy doesn't ask questions – she knows from our expressions.

I instruct dad to lay mom on the ground next to her grave – the grave that she had us dig, about a month ago. He kneels at her side, and starts to stroke her hair.

Wendy and I go inside, and I retrieve the package that mom had put together when she got the diagnosis. She said to open it when she died, that the instructions would be there.

Inside we find a blue suit – a vault suit – with a bright yellow 101 on the back. In a small envelope is a hair tie with several bobby pins, a small hairbrush, and a letter.

 _My son,_

 _If you're reading this, then I'm gone. I want to be buried in this suit – I emerged from the ground in it, it's only fitting that I return in it._

 _Give your father the envelope with the hair stuff in it – he'll know what to do._

 _A funeral isn't necessary for me – but funerals are for the living, not the dead. Try to get me in the ground as soon as you can – the more Charon has to see me, the worse he'll get._

 _Take care of him, Virgil. He depends on you._

We stare at the contents, silent. Wendy puts a hand on my shoulder, as dark spots drop onto the paper.

"I'll wash her and get her ready. Call my family on the radio and have them spread the news," says Wendy. I'm overwhelmed by her strength. She has grown to love my mother, almost as much as I do. I turn to her, and her jaw is set, her eyes focused. "I'll take care of her. Call them." She collects the package, the sheet off of mom and dad's bed, a washcloth, and a pail.

I sit at the radio, tune it to the right frequency, and after a short pause, I begin to call.

* * *

 _Charon_

Wendy comes outside, sits a bundle on the ground, and fills a pail at the hand pump.

"I'm going to need your help." She says.

I lift her as Wendy undresses her. She cleans her with a wet washcloth, shaking her head briefly at the cut under Mallie's breast. "I'll need another washcloth." She says. She looks into my eyes. "Can you get one for me?"

I comply.

She takes the dry washcloth and stuffs it in the cut.

"Let's dress her."

She holds up the vault suit, and I reach out for it. She allows me to take it. I ball it up and nuzzle into it, breathing in Mallie's scent. It's old – it smells like it's been in storage for a long time – but it's still there. A faint ghost of her.

I open my eyes, and Wendy is looking at me, quiet, face stony and practical, wet trails down her cheeks. She touches my hand, gently pries the suit from my grasp. I lift Mallie, and Wendy dresses her. She's getting stiff, hard to move.

I hear a rustle behind me. _Virgil._

"They'll spread the word. The funeral will be at ten."

Wendy nods at him, and hands me a small envelope. "This is for you."

I open it.

A hairbrush. Hair tie. Bobby pins.

It's almost as if no time has passed. I prop her up, and begin to brush her thick silver hair. In minutes, there's a tight bun at the nape of her neck, just as it was so many years ago. I slowly lower her to the ground, kneel beside her, and take her hand in mine.

* * *

 _Virgil_

We stand back, transfixed, and watch Dad fix mom's hair.

I knew he liked to brush it – but she never put it up in a bun, nothing more than a quick ponytail when there was work to be done, and she wanted it out of her eyes.

I feel special; privileged to see such an intimate moment.

It would probably look bizarre to most people – an enormous ghoul tenderly brushing an old woman's hair, and fixing it for her, in a neat bun.

When he kneels next to her and takes her hand, my heart almost breaks. Sensing my fragility, Wendy leads me inside, to the couch. Like my mom and dad had done months ago, I curl up, head in her lap, and begin to weep, as she strokes my hair.

* * *

 _Wendy_

Someone has to be strong for them. I'll cry later.

When Virgil falls asleep, I carefully rise, placing a throw pillow under his head, and covering him with a blanket.

I sit on the back porch, watching my in-laws.

This is a very strange family. Then again, I'm also a little strange. It's amazing how well I fit in here. I was fond of her, and given time, we could have been close friends. I only had a mother in law for a month. No – twenty four days. I knew that Virgil and Mal were planning something, but I didn't ask. She was in so much pain, I found it easier to turn my head away, turn a deaf ear. She knew I knew, and I'm sure she appreciated me not saying anything.

Charon is a puzzle, though. Such a big man – in a split second he could become swift and deadly – and yet, his whole family kept things from him to protect him. To protect his feelings. There's something that they aren't telling me, but in all honesty, I suspect that it's none of my business.

We'll make it. I'll get them through.

* * *

 _Charon_

I don't know how long I've knelt here.

Holding her cold hand, staring at her placid face.

I hear Wendy on the back porch. Watching me.

I close my eyes, hang my head.

I wish I could cry, although, I doubt it would make me feel any better.

Footsteps on the porch, the back door opens. A minute later, it closes again.

There's a hand on my shoulder. Wendy.

"Go shoot something. You'll feel better." She says, hands me my shotgun.

I go.

I do.

* * *

 _Wendy_

He heads for the hills.

He'll take out some of his frustration on radscorpions, hopefully enough to remain quiet for the funeral.

I walk over to Mal, crouch beside her. I look at her. I wonder about her life, her secrets.

The pain she carried inside.

I wonder if she had any regrets.

"I wish I could've got to know you better, mom." I say, touching her shoulder.

I sit, knees to my chest, as tears stream down my face, quiet sobs wrack my throat.

 _I have to be strong. For them. They mustn't see me cry._

* * *

Charon returns shortly before sunrise, with gecko meat and his shotgun over his shoulder. I'd taken short naps on the porch, waiting for him, and guarding Mal, making sure no animals came for her.

I pat the seat of the chair beside me – a large one, specially made for him. He places his things in a neat little pile, and sits, obediently.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask.

I've never talked with him at length before. _New territory._

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. He offers me one, and I refuse – I've never smoked, never cared much for it. I do like the smell, though. My dad smoked when I was little – it reminds me of him.

"How old are you, Wendy?"

"I'm nineteen. Same as Virgil." He smiles, shakes his head. "Nineteen going on forty. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Telling me to go."

"It's what you needed." We sit in silence for a minute, before my curiosity gets the best of me. "I don't know a lot about you…Dad." I say.

He smirks around his cigarette, glances at me. "What would you like to know?"

"Just…about you. And, of course, the burning question all of us have for ghouls…how old are you, really?"

"Well, lessee…I turned when I was twenty-four, found Mallie at about seventy-five, we've been together for about forty-five years. So, around a hundred and twenty."

"I was a soldier up in the Commonwealth. Made my way down to D.C. – that's where I met her. When we left, we were caravan guards for a while. When we found Virgil, we settled down here."

"Yeah, he told me about how you found him." He's silent for a few minutes. Then he murmurs, "I love her more than life itself."

My heart wrenches.

His hand shakes as he raises it to take a drag off his cigarette. His voice thickens. "I feel…empty."

I take his hand, and he squeezes it, painfully. His grief weighs heavy between us, almost palpable in the cool morning air. Gently, I say, "Go get dressed in your best. I'll wake up Virgil."

He rises, tosses his cigarette butt, and walks in the house, as if thankful for someone to give him direction.

I sigh, and then go in to wake Virgil and prepare for guests to arrive.


	6. Unexpected Guests

Virgil

When Wendy wakes me, I head to Mom and Dad's room to check on her, and when I see the bare mattress, grief descends upon me again. I miss her already.

I dress, robotically.

Only close friends and family were invited. I'm sure that more people will stop by later today, to pay their respects.

I meet Dad out by the Brahmin pen and wait for the guests to arrive. I expect Wendy's family to arrive early, to help us prepare. Both of us have our best, cleanest clothes on – dark pre-war suits, his heavily tailored. The same ones we wore to my wedding.

"Did you eat?" I ask him.

"No."

"Me neither. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Me neither."

The old pattern reasserts itself – I start to whittle, he smokes.

Shortly after seven, Wendy's family appears on the horizon, some walking, others sitting in a small cart, similar to ours, pulled by a Brahmin.

"Showtime."

He grunts.

* * *

It's a short affair, what mom would have wanted, had she wanted a funeral in the first place.

We all say some words, pass a bottle.

Dad puts a bottle of whiskey in one of mom's hands, and a pack of cigarettes in the other. He places her in the middle of the sheet that had been on their bed. He, I, and two of Wendy's brothers grasp the bedsheet and slowly lower mom into the ground.

Dad insists on shoveling the dirt back in the grave, but I tell him that we'll take turns. All of us love her; all of us want to. The women go into the house while the men shovel, to ready the food for the memorial service.

People drop in, periodically.

The innkeeper and his wife, the man that tailored our suits, and various friends that mom had made in town decide to come by. Neighbors stop by to express their condolences. Even the owner of the saloon closed down for a few hours to come to the memorial, the first time in anyone's recollection that he'd ever done such a thing.

We settle into our chairs on the back porch. Wendy brings us both some food. "Eat," she says. Dad stares at the plate, as if it were just dropped on his lap by an alien from outer space. "Eat it, Dad. All of it."

Only then does he start eating – after I order him to. This is heartbreaking. I can't do this.

When we get a moment alone, I say, "I think we should tell Wendy about the contract."

He nods. "I agree." I'm surprised that he's so quick to assent.

"Are you just saying that because I have your contract? Or are you saying it because you're my dad?" I ask.

"I am saying it because I trust her."

I wonder what happened to change his mind.

"She reminds me…she reminds me of your mother, when she was young."

I frown. Wendy looks nothing like mom. Mom was taller, more muscular. She had dark hair, Wendy's is light. Mom was brusque, Wendy is tactful. I guess the only thing that they have in common is blue eyes. The shade is different, though – Wendy's eyes are the blue of a serene summer sky. Mom's were the unforgiving blue of icy Arctic glaciers.

"She is strong. Determined." He says.

I nod.

"She is not dark, troubled, and angry like your mother used to be. But they share the same – " he searches for a word.

"Spirit?" I offer.

"Yes. The same…spirit."

* * *

Wendy

After dark, I find Charon kneeling next to Mal's grave.

I approach slowly; rest a hand on his shoulder.

"I was wrong." He says.

"Wrong about what?" I ask.

"When Mallie was young, she was worried about what would happen to me when she died. I thought…" he trails off.

I rub his shoulder. "What? You thought what?"

"I thought…that it would be best if she died first. That I was the stronger one."

Oh my.

He touches the mound of earth. "I was wrong."

* * *

We stand at the window in our room, looking out at Mal's grave. Charon, as usual, is kneeling next to it.

"We have to do something!"

"Virgil, calm down. Leave him be."

He turns, and with purpose, strides toward the bedroom door, intending to go outside. I've HAD IT. "Virgil KIRK!" I shout. He stops with his hand on the doorknob, flinches. I've never yelled at him before. "Let him grieve."

He turns, face grim. "Wendy, it's been a week. He's only left there to eat, and do his business." He's exasperated. "He even sleeps out there. I can't watch him suffer like this anymore."

"So, what're you gonna do?" I ask, pointing out the window. "Go out there, and tell him how he should grieve? For a wife of over forty years?"

He looks down at his shoes. "She was my mother. I loved her too."

"You still love her. Don't use the past tense." I'm angry. I have every right to be. I've been living with ghosts, listless men who spoke only when spoken to, for the past week. I have carried their emotional burden on my own shoulders. With the help of one of my sisters, I have cooked for them, cleaned for them, done the laundry, reminded them to bathe, and in the case of Charon, even helped them dress.

"And another thing – " I'm interrupted by a knock at the door.

I sigh. "Go see who it is. I'll bring him inside, if it makes you feel any better."

He hurries to the door; I hurry out back.

"It's time to come inside, Charon."

"Bring my food out here."

"No."

He looks at me – the first time his eyes have focused on anyone's face since the funeral. "I can't leave her." I kneel next to him, put a hand on his back. "She'll always be with you." He closes his eyes, nods, and rises. I take his hand and lead him into the house, his head bowed, his steps slow and deliberate.

* * *

Charon

I can't leave her. I don't want to leave her.

I know it's only a matter of time before Virgil orders me away. Watching my pain makes him feel worse, but I can't help it. I suspect Wendy might be shielding me, making it last as long as possible.

She comes out to get me, coaxes me inside. We walk in on a conversation at the open front door.

" – looking for someone named Maleficent." My head snaps up, eyes wide.

"She's not here." Virgil.

"Then I've been ordered to speak with one, Charon, a ghoul." I drop Wendy's hand, and stride to the door with heavy, purposeful steps. I'm rewarded with a view of five suits of Brotherhood power armor, glistening in the sun.

"You want to speak with her?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Come with me." I push through the door, walk down the steps and around the house, leading the Brotherhood soldiers to the mound of dirt out back. I sweep my arm over it. "Ask her all the fuckin' questions you want." I sneer, and cross my arms over my chest.

They stand, quiet, for a moment. The one in front turns. "Scribe Rothchild! Record her name, and history. For the Lyon's Pride records."

"Yes sir!" A small, dark-haired woman in red robes darts out from between two power armor-clad soldiers, and runs into the house.

"If you are Charon, we need to talk."

"Take off that fuckin' helmet first. "

* * *

"So, the Enclave was looking for her." I say. Incredible. After forty years, they still hold a grudge over that fucking water purifier.

"We don't know why, sir. We were hoping that you – or Maleficent – could tell us." Knight Johnstone was a by-the-book kind of guy, follows orders, efficient, but inflexible – I know the type.

"How did you find us?"

"Are you serious?" he asks. "There aren't many seven-foot-tall ghouls out there. You make a hell of an impression."

"If you found us, then they can find us."

He looks surprised.

"Virgil, Wendy – we gotta leave!" I yell towards the house.

I look Johnstone in the eyes. "You tell your superiors to leave us the fuck alone."

"Understood."

"Now leave, and don't come back."

* * *

Virgil

"My grandfather knew your mother – briefly."

The small woman in dark red robes spoke. "She's quite a legend back east. My dad told me stories about her. I requested this assignment – I'm sorry we didn't come sooner. I would have loved to record her story in her own words."

"She passed a week ago."

She writes on a clipboard. "Of what?"

"Intentional Med-X overdose." She stops writing.

"May I ask…why?"

"Wasteland Pain Syndrome."

Her jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes. Maybe reminds her of someone she loves?

"I'm sorry."

I tell her everything that I know about mom – about 101, the violin, the water purifier, the slavers. Even Megaton.

"Virgil, Wendy! We gotta leave!" What now?

* * *

Charon

"Get the packs ready. We don't have much time. Wendy…take Mallie's."

"But…I've never hiked before." She whines.

"No better time than the present."

I corner Virgil. "The Enclave is coming."

"How do you know?"

"He said they're after your mom. Probably me, too. He doesn't know why, and neither do I."

Virgil calls Wendy's family on the radio and tells them to take care of our livestock, that we're leaving for an emergency, and don't know when we'll return.

We suit up and shoulder our packs. Wendy – inexperienced is an understatement – has a hard time with the buckles and snaps. Virgil helps her – he's been in armor since his early teens, again, at Mallie's insistence.

Right now, I'm grateful that she pushed me to train him. One useless person is bad enough out in the wastes – how on earth would I protect two?

As we leave, I turn back, and glance longingly at the mound of dirt behind our home.

We head north, towards the hills.

* * *

Wendy

I'm not gonna lie – I'm terrified.

I know about the Enclave, everyone does – but no one's seen any Enclave out here in decades!

Where will we sleep?

My lord, this stuff is heavy. The armor makes everything awkward. I fit in Mal's fine – it's a little big, but not too big – but I've never worn this stuff before. It's bulky, hard to move in. The pack is heavy, even after Virgil and Charon lightened it.

I'm not strong like Mal. I'm slower than them, and I know it's irritating them. I want to cry. I can't help it. I want to go home.

* * *

Charon

We hike for about an hour before I suggest a rest. Wendy needs it – she's not used to this kind of physical strain.

"What's that sound?" Virgil asks.

"What?"

"Can't you hear that?"

"I hear it." Wendy says, frowning.

OH SHIT. WE'RE TOO LATE. "It's a vertibird. Getting closer. It's only a matter of time. "

There's nowhere to go.

"We have to run!" yells Wendy, panicking.

"They'll just find us. Then they'll be more pissed off because they had to look."

The noise gets louder, and eventually, the bulky aircraft lands on the flattest clearing the pilot can find. Four fully armored, fully armed Enclave soldiers file out, with an officer.

I stand next to Virgil, Wendy peeking out from my other side.

"Citizens!" yells the officer.

We give him our full attention.

"We're looking for one Maleficent."

Virgil speaks. "She's dead."

"Well, well – that makes our job easier. No need to continue the search. Just to be sure you're not lying to me, I'd like to scan all of you – or, the two of you." he spies Wendy behind me. He holds out a small device. "It will only take a couple seconds. Just let me scan your retina, and you can be on your way."

Nervous, Wendy steps forward and accepts the scan.

"Hmm…yes, you aren't her."

He looks at me. "Unfortunately, we can't scan ghoul eyes. Physiology, you know. I feel safe in saying that you aren't her, either."

He looks at Virgil. "You next."

"But I'm obviously male."

"There is no harm in being scanned. Just look into the device."

He does.

The scanner emits a loud beeping sound. Uh oh. We've got problems.

The officer smiles, a broad grin. "Oh, this is just too wonderful! Sir, I'll have to ask you to come with me."

"WHAT?"

The officer's face becomes stony; hard. "Come with me, sir, or we'll take you by force."

"Just…just let me say goodbye first."

"Whatever you need to do. Make it quick."

* * *

Wendy

What's going on? Why do they want to take him? Why isn't he fighting? Why isn't he running? Oh my God!

I stand next to Charon, petrified with fear. The bogeymen have come. And they're taking my husband! As children, we were told stories about how the Enclave took children, and they were never seen again. I thought they were just stories…

Virgil stuffs his hand in his pocket, pulls it out again, nervously. He hugs me, fiercely. "When I run, you run." He looks into my eyes. "I love you, Wendy." He grasps my hand, places something in it – something warm and hard – and closes my hand tightly around it. "Take care of him." He whispers.

He turns to Charon. "I need you to let me go, Dad."

Charon looks agitated, angry. "NO. Stand down." He looks into his eyes, touches Charon's arm, glances at me. "Take care of her."

Charon frowns, looks at me, then his eyes widen with what could only be surprise. He nods at Virgil. What the hell is going on?!"

Virgil turns to the officer. "I'm ready."

"Wonderful, wonderful! Thomas, your father has waited so long to see you again."

"My father?"

"Ah, yes – we'll have to tell you on the ride. Come." The officer waves him on, Virgil following obediently.

One of the soldiers asks, "Sir, what do we do with the locals?"

"Shoot them."

Virgil breaks out into a run, and we scatter.

* * *

Charon

I hope he knows what he's doing.

I can't let them take my son.

…but I have to stay with her. Protect her.

When Virgil breaks out into a run, we head in different directions. The soldiers, distracted, lost track of us. I hide behind a boulder about ten yards away – God only knows where Wendy is.

I can barely hear them over the noise of the vertibird starting back up. "We don't have time for this shit! Let's go!"

It lifts into the air and turns east, carrying the Enclave; carrying my boy.

* * *

I search for Wendy, and find her huddled in an outcropping of rock near a ledge.

"They took him, didn't they?" She asks.

"Yes."

We have to go. We have to get back.

"Did he give it to you?" I ask.

"What?"

"A metal cylinder. Small."

"Oh, this?" She holds it up. "What is it?"

"Hold onto it. I'll tell you when we get back to the house."

* * *

Wendy

What. The. Hell.

"Charon, you're my father-in-law, I can't order you around like a slave."

He sighs. "Well, you're gonna have to learn."

"I can't – "

"Yes, you can. You have to."

"But Mal – "

"Mallie did order me – it was just…subtle."

I stare at the little cylinder on the table. Virgil had cleaned it off, obviously – it was bright silver, probably titanium, about two and a half inches long and less than an inch thick.

He lays Mal's combat knife on the table. "Now, for the next order of business. Securing it."

* * *

Charon

When I told her what we had to do, she got quiet, scared.

Well, of course. She's a little country girl, way out in the Texas Commonwealth, unaccustomed to pain.

"I can put you all the way out. You'll feel nothing."

"Does it have to be…there?" she asks.

"No, but I strongly advise somewhere on your torso. Limbs can get blown off; mangled." She shudders. "Plus, there, it's…easier to conceal."

She fixes her face in a mask of bravery. "Fine. I want it on the right side, though."

* * *

I hit her with a stimpak and watched the flesh knit up beneath her right breast. I fetch a washrag and clean her off; clean the floor. Buttoning up her blouse, I think of all the times I did this for Mallie – when she was hurting, she'd ask me to dress her. I pause, distracted by the memory.

She'll wake up in fifteen minutes or so.

That gives me enough time to get Mallie's things. It occurs to me that this may be too many surprises in one day. I don't want to shock her. I have little choice, though, if we're ever going to get Virgil back. I pull the wooden box out from under the bed, and bring it to the table, waiting for her to wake.

* * *

Wendy

"What is that?" It looks old, pre-war. Probably old when Mal had it.

"It's called a Pip-Boy 3000. There are other, newer models. This was Mallie's. It's a computer for your wrist."

It'll be a miracle if that thing still works.

I flip it over. "It says, 'To reboot, place on arm and press for five seconds' this button here."

I look at Charon. "I hope you know what you're doing," as I slip on the machine, and tighten it. I feel on the back, and hold the small button.

After 5 seconds, the screen lights up, a bright, fluorescent green. "Well…I'll be damned. Guess they don't make stuff like they used to."


	7. A Blissful Moment

**About 25 years ago**

 _Maleficent_

I don't know where the fuck we are, to be honest.

I stopped using the Pip-boy's map function a while ago. Too many errors, and the merchants knew their routes, so I didn't bother. The only thing I used it for was to search for hostiles, pretty much, which had saved everyone's asses more times than I could count. I can see an ambush from half a mile away with this thing.

I find the will to open my eyes, and I'm met with a wonderful view of a cracked ceiling. _Ah, yeah – we're at an inn._ He mumbles in his sleep, kicks beneath the sheets. I've never asked him what his dreams were about – he never asked about mine, either, and I'm grateful.

More kicking; a pathetic whimper. "Mama."

I freeze. I have never uttered that word, ever, that I know of – I never had a mother – but I can understand the anguish in his voice. I've been with him for about twenty years now; I know the ins and outs of what little emotion he shows.

I curl up behind him, wrap an arm around his chest – or, try to anyway. I'm by no means small – about five-seven, tall for a woman in the wasteland – and somewhat muscular, but he still looms over me. Everything about him is big. Everything.

I squeeze him gently, lean up to where his ear used to be. "Shhh…" I say, and start to rock him back and forth, with no small amount of effort. Gradually, he quiets. His massive paw closes around my hand as he begins to stir. "Good morning," I croon, and kiss the nape of his neck.

"Couldn't keep your hands off me, huh?" he asks. It's a running joke with us – on caravans, we have to be discreet, so our 'romantic interludes' tend to be intense. "Something like that." My hands start to roam his body – _hey, if he's up for it, I'm not gonna say no._

"Scoot over, so I don't mash you flat." I giggle. It almost happened a couple of times. Even without his armor, he's awfully heavy. In top physical condition when he turned, he's practically a slab of muscle.

He rolls over and looks into my eyes, at my face, my dark tangled hair. He says that I'm most beautiful in the morning – that I look comfortable; I haven't put up my guard yet – but I don't see it. When I look in the mirror, I see deepening crow's feet and a rat's nest of hair, starting to gray at the temples – but I suppose he's looked at me more than I've looked in a mirror at myself.

He cups my face with his palm, rubs my cheek with a calloused thumb. It's only a matter of time before he – "Oh!" He seizes me and rolls me flat on top of him. "I see," I say, "you want me to do all the work, you lazy thing." His hands squeeze my buttocks, then creep up my nightshirt, caressing my back. I've long since eschewed underwear off the trail – it tends to impede progress, so to speak. I can feel his erection, hard, pressing against my pubic bone, against my belly. "I think there might be something you need to –" he thrusts his hips for emphasis, digging against me painfully, "– take care of."

I creep forward, then lean back onto him, both of us gasping. I rock back and forward, back and forward, slowly, savoring his length inside me, the sensation of being filled. When I sense his frustration, I lean back, and – oh, how he loves this – I grab the bottom of my nightshirt, and pull it over my head, revealing my naked body to him. He growls, reaches up and grabs my left breast, massaging the hard knot beneath it. Picking up speed, I lift myself up and down, up and down, thighs burning, his hips thrusting up to meet mine as I come down atop him. The old bedframe creaks, smacks against the wall, his growls and my moans surely carrying beyond our room.

I reach down between my legs; play with myself while he's inside me. He likes that, too.

I bring myself to orgasm, squeezing him forcefully. His hands grip my thighs, digging into them painfully, as he releases himself deep inside me with a loud, satisfied grunt, eyes rolling back.

As I collapse atop him, I wonder, _how long will this last?_

Even if it only lasts another day, another hour, another second…it will have been worth it.


	8. A Learning Experience

_Wendy_

I punch buttons, turn dials, knobs – this thing is impossible!

"They give 'em to 'em in the vault when they're ten, she said. Give yourself a little time to get used to it." Charon says. "Don't bother with the map. She didn't.'

We dump Virgil's pack and take what he says we need, shoving the rest underneath the bed in the room that Virgil and I shared, for the short time I've been here. Charon distributed the packs, and I feel guilty that I'm not strong enough to carry more. "What's wrong? He asks.

"I'm sorry I can't carry more. I'm…weak."

He nods. "That's okay. I can carry a lot."

"But I want to carry my share. I feel…guilty."

He laughs. "Look at me. I can carry a lot more than you."

I consider his massive frame. "Well…yeah. I just feel bad." He shakes his head. "Look – you gotta start giving me orders."

"But, I can't – "

"Yes, you can. If we're gonna find Virgil, you'll have to." I'm so confused. _Why didn't Virgil tell me about this before?_ Of course, we couldn't have predicted those Brotherhood people showing up at our door, or the Enclave kidnapping him. He sighs. "Remember how you felt when Mallie died? When you had to take over everything?" I nod. "Do it again. Do it to me."

I must have a pained expression on my face, because he says, "You have to. I have no purpose. No direction, without orders. You're doing me a favor." _This is crazy._

I consider his advice. "Well, you know more about this than I do. Teach me."

"About what?" he asks.

"How to survive. Out there." He nods, opens the door, and we head east, where Virgil disappeared.

* * *

 _Virgil_

I hope they're alive. I hope I did the right thing. Out of all the things I own, that contract had to be the most valuable. I regret not telling her about it before.

The vertibird is loud. Someone hands me a helmet, with a microphone in it.

"Get comfortable, Thomas. It'll be a while before we get there." The officer says. The microphone is small, tinny, a poor replacement for a real, live human voice. I have so many questions. It's driving me crazy.

"My name isn't Thomas." I say, authoritatively. For as long as I can remember, I've been called Virgil – after Dad's favorite poem, Dante's Inferno.

"Oh, yes it is. Your father named you." He smiles. "I was there."

I sit, shocked.

"You have a lot of questions, I know. It'd be a lot easier if they waited. Although, if you have any I'm authorized to answer, then I'd be glad to."

I think for a bit. "What's my father's name?"

"Joseph Autumn." He says, as if I'm supposed to know the name. He elaborates. "Maleficent _knew_ your grandfather." _Hmmm…._

By his tone, I take it that she killed him. "So…this is the reason why you came for her?"

"I'm sorry – not only do I not know, I wouldn't be authorized to tell you if I did." His speech is clipped, formal.

"You didn't ask?"

"It is not my place to ask questions, son. I follow orders."

"Why?"

"Why do I follow orders, son? For the greater good. For a brighter future for America." He smiles.

I think for a bit. It's overwhelming. Mom dies; now this.

"Who was my mother?"

"Her name was Jeanette."

I was hoping for more. _Time to prime the pump._ "She left…wherever we were. Why?"

"Son, I have no idea. You'll have to ask her."

"I can't. She's dead."

"I'm very sorry." He says, politely.

"It's fine. I don't remember her. Mal was the only mother I ever knew."

His eyebrows raise. "Maleficent? I read her dossier. Didn't take her for the mothering type."

I know. She used to be a horrible person. New subject. "Where are we going?"

"Why, Raven Rock, son. Everyone will be excited for your return. Your father hasn't seen you in…eighteen years, perhaps. You are nineteen now, correct?" He asks. I nod.

He smiles. _No doubt, his career is going to benefit from this._ "Wonderful. Just wonderful."


	9. Boot Camp

_Charon_

This one's gonna take some work.

"Just line it up, and shoot."

She raises the rifle, aims at the sarsaparilla bottle.

I sigh. "Put the stock against your shoulder, or you'll bruise the shit out of yourself." She shoves the stock into the pocket of her shoulder.

"Now the safety." She disengages it.

"Anytime. You don't have to wait for me to tell you when." I know I sound annoyed. I didn't have to teach Mallie how to shoot, for fuck's sake. What little patience I have is wearing thin. We've spent two days on the trail, and Wendy's struggling. "Breathe out slow, and then pull, slow."

I'm practically begging for her to take control. I can't go much longer like this. Mallie took control so easily. It came to her, second-nature. Wendy is a good person, sweet, naïve. She's never owned anyone before; she doesn't know how to begin. When I offered her some whiskey last night, she declined. _She doesn't smoke, and she doesn't drink – she'll have to take up at least one to cope._ It's not easy out there, and most people I knew couldn't cope with the death, the blood, without some kind of chemical. Well, except for that one guy – the one that kept talking about God. I told him that I stopped believing in God eighty years ago. When he asked why, I stared at him until he got uncomfortable. He got the hint pretty quick.

Me intimidating him made Mallie wet.

We didn't do it on the trail often, but she was…insistent.

We snuck off, hid behind a big rock. I remember her, on her hands and knees, ass bare, pants down around her ankles. She bit down on a rag to muffle the noises she made. She told me to fuck her from behind, hard, and I did. She liked it best that way, I don't know why. I figure it feels better, although, I wouldn't know what feels good for a woman. Unless they told me. I know enough to guess that Mallie wasn't normal. I've been with enough women to know that most of 'em don't want a man to fuck 'em raw, hit them. Bite them.

But what's normal, anyway?

The sharp report of a rifle makes me flinch. I shake my head.

The neck of a sarsaparilla bottle explodes. I smile. "Better."

* * *

 _Wendy_

He's mad at me, I can tell. It's not my fault! I've never had to shoot. I've never had to give orders to anyone before. I cooked, I did chores, I took care of my brothers and sisters. I thought that I'd marry Virgil, settle down, have a couple kids…grow old with him.

I look over at Charon. I can't help but feel bad for him. He probably would have given anything to age, to grow old with Mal, so he didn't have to face living without her. Ghouls live a long time – there are still some around from before the war. It might be a long time before he dies.

Then again, doing what he does, it might not.

He's standing there, arms crossed, barking instructions at me. I glance over at him, briefly, before I pull the trigger. His milky eyes have that faraway glassy look – the look he has when he's been drawn into a memory.

He taught Virgil all this stuff years ago. But he had years to teach him – not weeks.

We're going to DC, if it still exists – getting there should take about two months, unless we can find other transportation. We've heard about cars – real cars that run – but we're out in the middle of nowhere. DC is the only place he could think of that they'd take him. He's heard of a base, a bunker, but he doesn't know exactly where it is. Mal was taken there before; we're hoping that the Pip-Boy still has it in there. I wonder what plan he has for finding him – then something occurs to me. Maybe he's waiting for me to come up with something.

But I can't plan if I don't know what we're walking into. And I'm so inexperienced; I wouldn't know how to begin planning an assault on anything more dangerous than a nest of mole rats. I have to rely on his judgment for now.

The neck of a sarsaparilla bottle breaks, and I whoop in celebration.

"Better."

* * *

We meet up with a caravan headed east. He offers his services as a guard as a way to buy my passage – he's still a terrific caravan guard, even though I'm practically useless. I point out threats, and they let me practice as we go, shooting radscorpions, mole rats, and geckos. The guards even start to take bets on how many shots it would take for me to put something down. _Anything for entertainment, I guess._

During down time, I play with the Pip-Boy, to get more comfortable with using it. The menus are confusing, but I'm getting the hang of it.

The training didn't stop. Every night I sleep like a rock, every morning, he wakes me up early and pushes me near to exhaustion with calisthenics. The sprints – which he insisted we do every other day – are brutal. He says it's the best way to build muscle and explosive strength. He doesn't let me ride in the wagon. Walking builds muscle.

He's not a cheerleader – he's a drill sergeant. Makes me wonder what he'd gone through to get in the shape he's in. Probably much of the same.

But, of course, I don't have much time to wonder about anything.

* * *

 _Charon_

We sit around the campfire. Wendy's fast asleep – I see to it.

I don't have much time to whip her into shape. I hope I don't push her too hard. It's a delicate balance. She's a soft country girl, not a soldier, after all.

I lament not being able to teach her hand-to-hand. But where we're going, marksmanship, strength, and speed are more important.

I didn't have to teach any of this to Mallie. When I met her, she was already scarred, wasteland-hardened. Strong. Bitter. I close my eyes. I remember her, standing naked on the suite's balcony shortly before we left, palms resting on the railing, surveying the landscape like she owned every inch. My girl was arrogant, proud. She earned every scar, wore them like medals. I remember her pointing to the one where Eulogy'd shot her. "That one's yours, big guy. I took that bullet for you." I bent slowly to my knees, drew her to me, and kissed it, eliciting delighted shivers from her naked body. _Mine._

I light a cigarette, inhale slowly. When Wendy starts to hate me, that's when I'll know she's ready. Right now, she's too tired and sore to be pissed off. I smirk. Tomorrow is a sprint day _. If it's gonna happen, it'll be on a sprint day._

* * *

She's getting close.

Her body's lost the full softness of leisurely country life, gained toned, wiry strength. Her face is thinner, jaw set.

She has yet to spill any blood.

As we walk, I point at a blackened tree stump about fifty yards away. "Sprint." _It's not a sprint day._

Her nose flares up, eyes squint. She takes a deep breath and pushes off, full throttle. I nod my head, appraisingly. Good form, good speed. She's sore from the sprints yesterday, I know. I'll sprint her until she fails. She's strong now – so strong that she's forgetting how it feels to fail.

On the way back, her form starts to go. She feels it; I can see it on her face.

I stop; let her rest for a minute. "Sprint."

She pushes off, slower, form faltering. When she reaches the stump, I yell at her. "I SAID SPRINT!"

She pushes off, angrily, grunting with effort. _Here goes._ About ten yards away from where I'm standing, her form breaks and she trips over her own feet, landing hard in a cloud of dust. I watch her, arms crossed in front of me. _Now. This is the moment._ "SPRINT!" She slowly gets to her feet, eyes blazing, and _launches_ herself at me screaming – only to meet the dust a second time when I dodge her, easily.

"Congratulations."

She froze; she was preparing herself to fling at me again.

"You passed. Get your armor on."

 _It'll have to be good enough._

* * *

The hardest part isn't teaching someone how to fight; it's teaching them how to kill.

No matter what you may have heard about the bloodthirstiness of the human race – getting one person to kill another and still be able to function is a big hurdle. There are countless stories – the Civil War, the First World War – soldiers would fire above the heads of the enemy. Or they would continue to load their weapon, not firing once. We don't really want to kill each other.

Turns out, the ideology of rulers is a poor motivator.

It's survival that does it. Convince someone that they – or the people they care about – are in danger, and they will kill with impunity. Just point the finger, and they will maim, torture, and kill out of fear. It doesn't matter if the threat is real. It just has to seem real. Repetition is key.

But I don't have to use that method here. Pretty much everything's trying to kill us. If the threat is real, it makes killing easy.

* * *

Mallie enjoyed killing, reveled in blood. Killing came so easy to her, that she could have been born with a knife in her hand. For Wendy, killing is practical – something is trying to hurt her; she's gonna hurt it back. The first raider she killed, she cried over it later. She had taken a man's life. "It will get easier," I said. I saw shock, horror in her eyes. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

But it did get easier.

It doesn't take long for her to put on a mask of stone. Like mine, but prettier.

I think of the innocent farm girl that Virgil married, sky-blue bright eyes, naïve and wise at the same time. I've dimmed her shine. I've made an innocent into a warrior.


	10. An Error in Judgment

_Virgil_

We land, and the officer – Williams – leads me to a door, placed inconspicuously in a slab of rock. He punches a code on a keypad, and the door opens with a metallic clank. "Welcome home, Thomas."

* * *

 _Wendy_

The caravan kept going north – Charon said we had to go east from here.

I've started smoking, and drinking a beer or two to relax in the evening. He was right – killing has gotten easier, but that doesn't erase their faces, the blood, and the realization that I've just ended someone's life. He says that it's good that I feel guilt – if I didn't, I'd be a bad person.

I suppose he's right, although it doesn't make me feel much better.

The scenery's changed. Gone are the dry, flat brown expanses of my home – it's hillier, rockier, more humid. We avoid the old world cities, and scout outside of towns before we go into them. I check my Pip-Boy for hostiles, and we take a wide arc around the periphery.

"Knox-ville, " I say. "Is that a big one?"

"Yeah, we're going around it."

"I wanna stop somewhere. I'd like to sleep on a bed tonight. Plus, we're runnin' low on food, big guy." We didn't need caps – we both had more than enough, a chunk of Mal's nest egg.

We'd stopped at a place called Wellville about a mile or so back – I'd hoped to get a room, but he advised against it. It must be rough not trusting anyone. I know he does it for my safety – he seems to care so little for his.

* * *

 _Charon_

She's quick, efficient. Not as fast as Mallie, but her being small gives us the advantage of surprise. She can sneak up on just about anyone, and not make a sound. Which is good, because her aim needs a shitload of work.

I relent – we'll find a place with a bed. There are plenty of abandoned houses; we just need to find a decent one.

It'd been a hot day. We're tired. We find a house that looks promising, and we aren't expecting anyone to be there. I got sloppy.

I open the door, and as it swings inward, she pushes me to the side. "NO!" she screams.

I see a flash, hear a deafening boom, a spray of blood.

Wendy sprays the doorway with her SMG and reaches for another magazine, getting frustrated when she has trouble finding it. "Wendy…your hand." Or, I should say…the lack thereof.

She looks down at the mangled remains beyond her wrist - and faints dead away.

* * *

 _Oh, Jesus, not again._

I inspect her wound, and wince. There's not much left – just a torn mess of blood, skin, bone, and gore. I hit it with a stimpak and some Med-X – the blood flow slows significantly, but doesn't stop. We're gonna need a doctor to stitch her up – stimpaks don't heal everything.

I slide the Pip-Boy off her arm fast, and wrap her belt around her forearm, tightly, slowing the blood flow down to a lazy drip. _Not the best tourniquet, but it'll have to do for now. I gotta move fast._

I quickly shove our packs underneath the porch – not good, but time is of the essence.

Slinging her across my shoulder, I sprint back towards the last town we passed, as fast as my legs could carry us.

* * *

A haggard middle-aged woman pads into the small waiting room, wiping blood off her hands with a small towel. "She'll be okay." I sigh, with relief. "But, I wasn't able to save it. I'm sorry." I sit, shocked. I knew it, but I didn't want to believe it.

Again. Another lapse in judgment. I almost killed Mallie – but she survived, intact. Wendy is not nearly so lucky. _She pushed me away from the door._ I could have died, or at least been badly injured. She pushed me, out of concern for my safety. It was not supposed to be like that. I had explained this to her – she did not listen.

The doctor jerks her head over her shoulder, towards the door to the back room. "You can go sit with her if you want. She'll wake up in a few hours or so."

She steps aside respectfully, watches me pass with a significant amount of scientific interest. _Every time._ Every time we walk into a settlement, people stare at me like an animal in a zoo. I got too comfortable back west – people got used to me, they were comfortable around me; treated me like a person instead of a tamed wild animal. Guess that ended when we headed out.

She's lying in a hospital bed, partially obscured by a screen. There's a chair next to the bed – it's a bit small, and creaks under my weight.

She's covered with a white sheet, clean but stained. Her arms are at her sides, her left wrapped in gauze up to the middle of her forearm.

The doctor walks in. "We can take the bandages off tomorrow." She sighs. "I did the best I could. I don't want you to be surprised – there's nothing beyond the wrist." She shakes her head wistfully, reaches out to touch Wendy's foot, and I tense. "You're her bodyguard?" I nod. "I'm not gonna give you any shit. You got her here."

She sits in a chair near the foot of the bed. "They call me Bones. Ya know…saw-bones?" she chuckles, shakes her head. She waits, then asks, "And your name is…?"

"Charon."

"Nice to meet you, Charon." She lights a cigarette, offers me one. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?" She offers me the lighter, and I wave her off, fishing Mallie's lighter from my pocket.

"I'm about a hundred and twenty. I turned when I was twenty-four." I spit out, curtly.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "How did you kn-"

"I spent a lot of time around smoothskins. Those are always the first questions."

"Sorry. We don't get a lot of ghouls out here. Most are just passing through, going west. I haven't been able to get this close to one before." She says, disappointed.

"Could ya do somethin' for me?" I ask.

"Sure!"

"Stop starin' at me like I'm a specimen in a jar."

* * *

I let her do a physical on me. I had time to kill, and who doesn't like talking about themselves?

She's a joker with a good bedside manner. "What started to go first when you changed?"

"Hair. Then the skin on areas exposed to radiation. Not all of it, of course. Face, arms, first."

She looks at the remnants of my hair. "What a shame. Don't find a lot of natural redheads out here anymore. So – what'd they feed ya? Miracle-Gro?"

I chuckle. "I was always just big. Don't know why."

"Now for a couple embarrassing questions. If you don't want to answer them, then just let me know."

 _I know what's coming. They're always curious._

She points at my crotch. "Your – hmm – _equipment._ Fully functional?"

"Very much so."

"Bowel movements?"

"Didn't change."

"Looks like you're still basically human, just, uh..." she can't find the word she's looking for.

"Altered?"

"That'll work."

We heard pained moans from behind the screen. I pad over, bare feet, to where she lay. "Wendy. It's me."

"Charon? Whu – where am I?" she asks, in a drugged stupor.

"I got you to a doctor. You're gonna be fine." Bones jerks her head at me as she measures some Med-X in a syringe and injects it in Wendy's arm.

"What happened? I can't – I can't remember."

"Wendy, you were shot. You need to rest."

"Yes mom. Ha ha." She closes her eyes and drifts off.

* * *

I pull on my socks and boots as Bones lectures me.

"Look, it's not gonna be easy telling her. She's gonna have a hard time coping."

"I can handle it." I say, brusquely.

"No – no you can't. You're a bodyguard, not a psychologist. Losing a hand is very traumatic."

"What do you want us to do, then? We gotta leave." I can't help but be a bit impatient.

"Stay for a week. I'll see what I can do. Coach you." I scowl. "Please. For her."

"Okay. A week."


	11. The Big Reveal

_Wendy_

Goddamn, what the heck did I do this time?

I'm so tired. Charon rubs my arm. Tells me everything's gonna be fine.

I sleep.

When I wake, I'm confused, angry.

"What happened, what's going on, why won't anyone tell me anything?"

"It's okay, just lay down." Charon says.

"NO. What happened?"

Compelled to answer, unable to lie, he replies, "You were shot. In the hand. It's…gone."

"What do you mean, GONE?"

The doctor at my side grasps my left arm, looks at Charon. "Honey, look." She shows me a lump of gauze. I frown, uncomprehending. She begins to unwind the gauze, and Charon tries to stop her. "Look, she's gonna have to find out sometime." I stare at my arm, as the gauze slowly unwinds. It's like a dream. Any minute now, I'll wake up in the farmhouse, happy, whole.

But I don't.

My wrist ends in a rude stump, marred with stitches.

"The sutures will dissolve. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"No."

I look into Charon's eyes. "No."

He takes a deep breath. "Yes."

I fight to get up, to escape.

I fall into blackness.

* * *

 _Charon_

"Well, that could've went better." Bones' sense of humor was not particularly well-received.

"Goddamn right it fuckin' could've. What're we gonna do now?"

"Wait 'til she wakes up, then do it all over again."

* * *

She wakes, calmer.

I explain what happened. That she pushed me out of the way. Lost her hand, for me.

Tears shimmer in her eyes, but her jaw stiffens, her eyes turn glassy.

She frowns. "How'm I gonna get my Pip-Boy to stay on?"

I laugh, shake my head. _That's my girl._

* * *

A leather-worker in town devises an ingenious sleeve with straps, keeping her Pip-Boy on her arm. Holding a rifle will be a significant challenge. She says that she'll stick to the 9mm SMG, but she needs to have a long-range weapon. Maybe somewhere along the way, we can get a prosthetic made. Until then, we'll have to rely on me and luck.

Before we leave, Bones corners me. "She might look fine, but she's not."

I roll my eyes. "Come on. Look at her." She's haggling with a merchant over a set of armor. "Does she look like she's not fine?"

"No. But she'll break. And you'll have to deal with it."

"I'll manage."

"I hope you can."


	12. A Meeting

_Wendy_

My hand itches.

Weird, since it's NOT FUCKING THERE.

I've started smoking more, drinking the hard stuff. I have to. I can't…deal with anything anymore without them. Better living through chemistry, and all that.

How did everything become so different? It's been a month. Maybe a little more. And I'm someone I don't recognize.

I had a barber cut my hair short, about two inches long. I saw the pain in Charon's eyes – he likes long hair – but practicality won out. It's hard taking care of hair out in the wasteland, even if you have two hands. I don't want to have him take care of it. Plus, I don't have to worry about it looking like shit when I haven't washed it for a week.

Oh, I've started swearing, too. I remind myself of Mal. I love her – her strength, her tenacity – but I don't want to BE her.

Who the fuck am I anymore?

* * *

 _Virgil_

"Take me home." I say. Williams smiles. "Impossible, I'm afraid."

"You mean – I'm your prisoner?"

"Oh, no – nothing like that. I'm under orders. Until your father says to release you, I can do nothing."

I frown.

"I'd like to meet him." It's been more than a week. I'm dressed in one of the jumpsuits that support personnel wear in the bunker. Since I'm not a soldier, and I'm not exactly a prisoner, they had to make a compromise in the dress code. Nothing really covered a situation like this.

"I'll be sure to tell him that. He wanted you to go through all the tests beforehand."

I've been poked, prodded, and inspected, going from doctor to doctor, scientist to scientist, for over a week. I'm tired of this, and it's about time I finally saw him. The suspense is killing me. What does he look like? What's his personality? Do I take after him or my mother? Guiltily, I think of mom and dad – the ones who raised me.

She's gone, forever. And if I know dad, he's packed up Wendy and come after me. I don't know how far Raven Rock is away from the Texas Commonwealth, but it'll probably take them a lot longer on foot than it did for me in a vertibird.

* * *

Williams leads me to an expansive room, deep within the compound. A glass coffee table with a vase of fake flowers is in the center of the room. There are two pristine pre-war chairs. A middle-aged man sits in one of them. As I enter, he rises, stiffly. I can tell by his bearing that although he's not in uniform, he's a lifelong military man.

It takes my breath away. _He looks exactly like me._ Brown hair, brown eyes, square jaw – going a little soft in the middle but still, you can tell he'd been athletic most of his life. Gray dusts his temples, deep frown lines on his face.

"Hello, Thomas. I've missed you."

"My name is Virgil."

He starts, surprised. "But they've told you about where you came from."

"You think I'm going to just throw away everything I've known for the past eighteen years?" _It's my name. Mine._

He frowns. Clearly, he wasn't expecting this. "Son, I – "

"Don't call me 'son.' You didn't raise me." _You can cut the tension in here with a knife._

"I think we started off on the wrong foot. My name is Joseph. My – OUR – family has been preserved here, in this bunker, since the Great War."

Confused, I ask, "Then, why did my mom…"

"Your mother. Yes. She was unstable. She took you, and left. I've been looking for you for a long time, _Virgil."_

Unstable. Hmm.

"Your mother and I, we were _matched_."

Okay, I'm confused. "Matched?"

"Yes, genetically compatible. With a limited gene pool in an underground bunker, arranged pairings are inevitable."

I stand, still uncomprehending. _  
_

"We grew to love each other, Virgil."

"What was she like?"

His eyes soften. "Sweet. Naïve. Then again, I was naïve too." He pauses. "I can give you a picture of her, if you want."

"Yes, please."

He meets my eyes. "She loved you very much, Virgil. She thought she was doing the right thing when she left."

I smile. "I think I turned out fine."

"On that note, I have something to give to you."

I frown, as he hands me a manila folder, marked 'Lilith Kirk.'

* * *

Oh, my God.

My mother – Mal – was a monster.

These records…a list of every slave she'd ever put a collar on. Megaton. Pictures of a raider, of an Enclave officer, cut to ribbons. Dad told me about this stuff, but hearing about it and flipping through 8X10 glossies documenting Mom's past cruelties…that's another thing entirely.

The mother I knew couldn't have done this.

Or, could she?


	13. Empty Inside

_Charon_

Bones was right. She's unraveling.

But it's too late to turn around. We're too far away, and too close to Virgil to give up now. She doesn't want to stop.

She's drinking, smoking. Not eating a lot. Swearing. Crying for no reason. She's not herself – then again, she hasn't been herself since I started to train her over a month ago.

At night, she stares at where her hand used to be. Rubs the stump, counts the sutures. She says her hand hurts, but there's nothing she can do about it. Sometimes, she'll reach up to scratch her face, and collapse into a sobbing ball of grief.

Her hands were beautiful. Now, one is gone. The other is calloused, covered in the dust and grime of the wasteland, nails cracked, broken. I watch her closely; pull her to me at night to make sure she doesn't try to hurt herself.

It reminds me of how Mallie was in the suite.

* * *

 **About Forty-Five Years Ago**

 _Maleficent_

Even if you feel dead inside, you still have a desire to live, even if it means the pain will last forever. The desire to die is less strong than the need to live. Until one day, it isn't.

I'm looking over the balcony at Tenpenny.

"I wonder what it would be like, to jump."

"Mallie, don't say shit like that."

"I wonder if I'd change my mind on the way down."

He sighs, irritated. "I'm sure most people do. They're just not around so you can ask 'em afterwards."

I steel myself. "Only one way to find out, I suppose."

I back up a few steps, sprint, take a flying leap over the railing, and he snatches me out of the air at the last second.

"Are you out of your GODDAMNED MIND?" He clutches me to his chest, tightly.

I shiver in his arms. "You're right."

"About what?"

"I changed my mind."

* * *

I once thought that everything about him is hard, strong.

That night, I find something soft, gentle.

I know that he knew I stopped slaving because of him. I didn't tell him why, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure something like that out.

I can't believe I did that. I could've died. I haven't done anything that fuckin' stupid in quite some time, and that's saying something.

We're lying on the bed, side by side. His arm is around my bare stomach, pulling me close to him, absorbing my body heat. I don't wear much of anything these days; I don't leave the suite, anyway. It's easier when I'm naked, to be honest – the heat doesn't have to go through layers of clothing to get to him. I've never seen him unclothed, completely. He showers quickly, changes quickly – but I don't think too much of it. I don't have time for other people's insecurities – I'm busy with my own.

He reaches up, starts petting my hair. It seems to soothe him, and it feels good, so I don't complain. "I could have lost you." He says.

"I'm sorry."

"I know." He stops stroking my hair and puts his arm around me, squeezes me.

"I'm trying to be better." I can't help the frustration that creeps into my voice. _I'm not good enough. Never will be. Not after what I've done._

"That's why I –" he hesitates.

I roll over and meet his eyes, press my finger to his lips. "Hush with that."

He sighs. When he said it, he had to know I wouldn't say it back. I don't want to care about anyone. It's easier when you're…unattached.

A large rough hand caresses my cheek, smooths my hair, then pushes my head toward his. He parts my soft lips, his rough and dry, kisses me deeply. When we started fucking, I told him no kissing. I told him that it was a waste of time, didn't do much for me. But this…

When he finally breaks away, he pushes my shoulder, gently, laying me flat on my back.

"Close your eyes," He whispers.

I obey.

His hands trail the length of my body and I gasp, surprised by the gentleness of his touch.

He shifts on the bed, straddles me. He cups my face in hands, brushes my cheekbones with his thumbs. I feel him leave a trail of kisses from my brow to my collarbone. He locks his lips around the soft place where my neck meets my shoulder; flicks it with his eager tongue.

I moan, tilt my head to the side, eliciting a satisfied grunt from him. It's a shock when he disengages. Shifting backward, he begins to nuzzle one of my breasts while gently kneading the other, rolling the nipple between a thumb and forefinger.

He takes my nipple in his mouth, lightly sucking.

I grip the sheets, inhale sharply. He hums with me in his mouth, sending shivers down my body. I lift my head and he gently presses it back down to the pillow as he takes my other nipple in his mouth . "Oooh" I moan, unaccustomed to the sensation, but liking it all the same. I revel in pain, in rough, in rawness. Softness is something new to me.

He moves down my body, trailing soft kisses down to my navel, stroking my stomach, my hips. He sits up, shifts, parts my legs and settles between them. As feel him begin to dip his head down, I remind him with a gentle push away. _No. If you won't let me, then I won't let you._

He sighs in frustration, and then rallies nicely – he leans forward, bracing his bulk over me. I can feel the heat of him through his clothing. I can feel his hardness pushing against me, and I moan. _I want you inside me._

He takes my ear lobe in his mouth, sucking gently while his hot breaths tease me. _If he doesn't take me soon, he'll have me begging for him._

His lips retreat, and I clench inside as I hear the telltale clink of a belt buckle. I lift my head, and he whispers, "close your eyes." _He doesn't want me looking at him._ Even after I told him that it doesn't matter how he looks, it matters how it _feels._ My head falls back on the pillow, and I hear a rustle of fabric, then gasp as I feel his warm length brush against the inside of my thigh.

His coarse hands rub my legs, and I tighten them reflexively.

Sensing my readiness, he parts my legs a little more, and enters me slowly, languorously, filling me so gently that I ached. His tender thrusts send waves of pleasure through me, eliciting soft moans. I wrap my legs around him, try to pull him closer, faster, but he slows further, hot breath in my ear. "Mallie…" he whispers, not adding, but implying, _I love you._ I tighten around him and he shudders, grunts softly. He speeds up, going deeper, harder.

I feel heat gather between my legs, a fire that spreads, a soft cry from deep within my chest, my body bucking underneath his, tightening around him deliciously. A sharp grunt, and his body stiffens above me, as he looses himself inside me.

Breathing heavily, he kisses the tender crook of my neck, and rolls off me. After a minute, he rises from the bed, hitches his pants up, and heads to the bathroom to fulfill his duties – getting me something to clean up with.

That was part of our deal, our "arrangement."

Which had now become a lot more complicated.


	14. A Respite

_Charon_

She's not only crazy, she's reckless.

She went after a yao guai with her SMG, which just pisses them off. God only knows how many rounds we had to put into that thing. Whoever we sell the meat to will get their full daily value of lead, that's for sure.

I try to think about what Bones told me to do when I saw the signs of her starting to unravel. _Try to get her to open up, get her to talk._

"Let's talk."

"About what?"

"About anything." _Just get her talking._

I try getting her to talk about her family, but she becomes sad, silent.

One day, I slip, and call her Mallie. I can't help it – after more than a month out here, she acts and sounds so much like her now. She starts crying, and it seems like it takes forever for her to calm down, to stop.

She wipes her eye with her stump. "I'm not me anymore. I'm turning into her."

"That's not true." _She's lost her identity. She doesn't know who she is anymore._

That night she gets drunk, falls asleep soundly by my side.

I realize that it's been a long time since I've seen her smile, be happy.

Her happiness had been taken from her by the Enclave. Her innocence had been taken by me. Her identity, along with her hand, had been taken by a stranger with a shotgun.

* * *

I decide that it's high time that we stop into the next town, hit a saloon, find some singing, some dancing, some people. She already likes to drink, so it's easier to get her to go than I thought.

We find a group of shacks in the mountains – what qualifies as a town is pretty loose these days. Before we enter the town, we steel ourselves for what we might find. There's a significant chance that we could find the town unfriendly or even downright hostile to my presence.

We'd run across problems before – people out here don't tend to see many ghouls, so they're either scared or angry when they see me. In one town, we were run out after I was accused of sleeping with her. _I'm definitely guilty, but wrong woman._

It doesn't escape my notice that when my employer was male, I never had to worry about this particular accusation. I mention this to Wendy, and she laughs – for the first time in a long time. "I don't suppose any of your male employers came onto you?"

"Well, there was that one…"

She leans in, hoping for a juicy tidbit.

"Just kidding. No. Not one."

She sighs, disappointed.

I shrug my shoulders. "Their loss, huh?"

We laugh.

* * *

 _Wendy_

It's nice to be around people again.

Charon sits in a barstool in the corner, nursing a beer. There was a pretty tense moment when we first walked in, but when I assured them that he wouldn't eat their brains, they calmed down pretty quick.

I was delighted to find a small stage inside. "Live music! The last time I heard anything live was that harmonica." A guard on the caravan had played a decent tune, but I was way too tired to enjoy it. Ya know…sprints.

I order a beer and sit next to him, waiting for the music to start.

* * *

 _Charon_

It's nice to see her having fun, smiling, laughing, dancing. There's some fumbling in the beginning, but the locals compensate for her missing hand. She tries to get me to join in, but I wave her off, tell her to go have fun. I'm pretty good at kickin' ass, but I never really learned how to dance. Besides – it'd be kinda hard to find a dance partner for someone as tall as I am.

She dances and drinks herself silly. I carry her back to the room we'd rented for the night and drop her on the bed. I pull her close under the covers and soak up her body heat. She drops off to sleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, a smile on her face.


	15. Mirrors

_Virgil_

It's been about a month since they took me. Hard to tell underground, though.

They've tested me – marksmanship, hand-to-hand, tactics – and say that I scored at the top of all the prospective officers in the bunker. The pride on my father's face – no, _Joseph's_ face – is strangely satisfying. I mean – he didn't even teach me any of it. I wonder what he'd say if I told him that an enormous ghoul taught me everything I know.

Who am I kidding? I'm sure he already knows.

He's probably less than pleased about that. I know how they feel about anyone whose families weren't lucky enough to be preserved in an Enclave bunker. Just the thought of an "abomination" taking over his role must stick in his craw something awful.

They've given me an officer-in-training uniform to wear.

I put it on, look in the mirror, and remember what Joseph said to me when he gave it to me. It was overwhelming for me – the only thing I ever thought I'd do was raise a family with Wendy, ranch a little, and maybe buy some farmland.

"Son, stay with us, and you'll go places, do important things. Help rebuild a proud nation."

* * *

 **Thirty Years Ago**

 _Charon_

 _Why do I torture myself like this?_

Bare-chested, I grip the edges of the sink, lean forward, and stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, trying to remember what I looked like before I turned. The more time passes, the harder it is to do. The longer it takes.

Gradually, I can tease features out of my imagination. Clear blue eyes, thick, dark red hair. A haughty, arrogant smile. I was rebuilding the bridge of my nose when I hear Mallie pad up behind me, feel her arms snake around my torso, her warmth seeps into my back.

"Stop that." She chides.

I freeze. "Stop what?"

"Torturing yourself. I do it too."

"No, you don't." _She is perfect._

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"If the shoe fits…"

She sighs. "I imagine what I'd look like, without the scars. In the vault, my skin used to be smooth, beautiful. Almost like porcelain."

"You are perfect."

She squeezes me, and I look at her hands in the mirror: soft, small, and pale, pressed against the deep red of muscle, the tough tanned leather of what passes for my skin. She's protective of her complexion these days. Hats, gloves, long sleeves, no matter the weather. She says she likes to see the contrast between us, turns her on.

I watch as her hand slides down, tucks itself down the waistband of my trousers. I take a long, deep breath, close my eyes.

"Come back to bed. I'll help you take your mind off it," she purrs, kisses my back.


	16. The Unspeakable

_Charon_

We're lying here, warm under the blankets, in an abandoned building. Close to DC; the Pip-Boy should start beeping to load a new map any day now. She says to me that we'll never find him. That he's probably dead. She cries. Tells me she wants to forget it all. That she doesn't know who she is anymore. She wants to be close to someone, anyone. She wants to feel something, anything.

It's little different from any other night.

I wake to her fumbling with my trouser buttons. With one hand, it isn't easy doing and undoing her own, much less mine. For one brief, blissful moment, I think it's Mallie, and my body responds. It's almost like it had all been a dream, and we were lying in the suite the whole time.

But it's not.

I feel more than see the silhouette of her wiry form climb atop me. She leans back, guides me inside of her. I hear her soft moans, so close to sobs that I can't be sure. I caress her back, rest my hands on her hips, gently rock to meet her, and she tightens around me. I close my eyes; imagine she's Mallie – warm, soft, willing. I want her so badly. I want her to come back, to be with her forever.

I could say no. I could push her away. But I don't.

Out of weakness, out of grief, I betray my son.

She cries the morning after, when she realizes what we've done. I don't know how to comfort her. I was never any good at that kind of thing. Confused, vulnerable, I retreat into myself, donning the mask of stone I'd worn so long in the Ninth Circle. We weren't prepared for this. Neither of us expected it, although, being older, I should've. Proximity is a hell of a motivator. Like magnets, bringing naughty bits together.

I never betrayed you, Mallie. I never said her name. She never said mine. It was your name on my lips, the whole time.

I made love to her like she was you. I said your name. She never said a word.

* * *

 _Wendy_

He said her name. I don't begrudge him that.

It wasn't like I was thinking of him, either.

It was a shameful, selfish thing I did. I hate the thing inside me that made me do it. Crying doesn't help, but it makes me feel a little better. There's nothing that can fix it now. I've broken my vows to Virgil, and taken advantage of Charon.

But I just wanted a moment to forget myself, to forget…everything.

He allowed me to take it, and for that, I'm grateful.


	17. Suite Nothings

_Wendy_

We're making shitty time. We should have been there by now.

I have a terrible feeling that even if we do find him, he won't want me anymore. Because of what we'd done. No, because of what **I** had done. What I'm doing. I look at my left arm. _Or, who I am now._ What a difference a month and a half in the wasteland makes.

A few months ago, we were madly in love. I'd promised to love, honor, cherish. Instead, I've betrayed him in the worst way possible. I don't hold out hope that he won't find out – we've never kept secrets from one another, and I've never been a very good liar. So if – no, when – I see him again, I might just wind up losing him.

BEEP BEEP

I look at the screen of the Pip-Boy. 'Load DC Area Map?' It asks. I click 'Yes.'

Another series of shrill beeps, and I read the screen: ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED.

"Fuck!" I growl in frustration. "Well, there goes Plan A. What now, big guy?"

Charon looks over at the screen, and sighs. "We'll find a place to rest and resupply. I have a few ideas."

* * *

He points in the distance. "There."

"That tall building? What's there that's so important?" I ask.

"It's Tenpenny Tower." He drops his pack, digs in a pocket, and fishes out a keyring. He selects a beautiful although tarnished key, decorated with stunning, intricate scrollwork. "The key to Mallie's suite. Hopefully, she left us some stuff in there. We can also get a good night's sleep on a clean bed."

"If they'll let us in. How long has it been since you've been there?"

"About…forty-four, forty-five years. Thereabouts."

"Let's hope my silver tongue can get us through the gate."

* * *

"Here goes." I press the button on the intercom.

"Hello? Security?"

"State your business."

"I have a key to a suite I…inherited."

"Which one?"

"Penthouse. Name, Maleficent."

The sound of paper shuffling. "That one's been closed for almost fifty years."

"Are ya gonna let me in or not?"

"Hold your horses."

A few minutes pass, and a stern man in a khaki uniform walks up to the gate. "There's two names on the deed. If you know the other one, I can let you in."

"The other name is Charon." It can't possibly be anyone else.

"You have a key?" I flash it to him through the gate, and he's genuinely surprised. "Hold on a second. I'll open the gate for you."

Charon is standing next to the wall, body obscured. As soon as the gate opens, he's by my side. He'd told me that he expected trouble – that the residents of Tenpenny weren't too tolerant of ghouls; the only reason he was allowed in was that Mallie had done something for the owner a long time ago, and she was pretty much given carte blanche after that. "I had no idea she put me on there." He says, stunned.

"Let's hope that she also put in a description."

"Whoa!" the security guard exclaims, as he catches sight of Charon. "I thought that paper was a joke. Who'd believe there was a seven foot ghoul?" He shakes his head. "Since you're on the deed, I guess you're allowed in."

I hold out my hand. "Hi -?"

"Jacobs." He grasps my hand firmly, pumps it twice.

"Hi, Jacobs, I'm Wendy. Maleficent's…daughter." _Not entirely a lie…_

"Nice to meet you. Go ahead on up. Just straight through the lobby to the elevator." He smiles. "Welcome home."

* * *

Before I open the door, I turn to Charon. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"

"No. But I will try."

I swing the door inward, flick the light switch, and step into the room. _It's amazing!_ I've never seen such splendor in my life. The bed is absolutely huge! All this furniture – a workbench, a safe, a writing desk, even a small infirmary! It's decorated like a pre-war home – the upholstery on the chairs is musty, like it's been shut up for a long time, but it's pristine!

"Wow!"

I look back at Charon, and he's standing at the entrance, stock-still, eyes distant. I have to snap my fingers several times to get his attention.

"It's been a long day. Why don't we drop our stuff, eat, and go to bed?"

He nods slowly, walks inside, puts down his pack, and closes the door as if in a trance.

* * *

 _Charon_

My throat tightens. It looks just like we left it.

The wound in my heart reopens.

I could almost swear we never left. That I'd walk in the bathroom and see her there, fixing her hair in the mirror. Or maybe, out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

"Charon!" a series of loud finger snaps force me out of my reverie.

"Why don't you drop your stuff over there?"

I follow my orders mechanically, and sit on the edge the bed – her side. I stare at a point on the wall and try to collect myself. It's been a long time since I've had to put on a mask to perform my duties. I'm a bit out of practice.

"-then we can go to bed." I hear Wendy say.

I turn my head to Wendy, frowning. "I'm sorry – I missed that."

"We'll eat, then go to bed. Why don't you find something in your pack?"

"Yes, mistress." I dig in my pack, find a can of Pork 'n Beans, and eat it, slowly, pressing my emotions down, letting the programming take control.

I want to leave as soon as possible.

 _Her ghost is everywhere here._

* * *

 _Wendy_

Mistress?!

Oh no...

I can't wait to leave this place behind, no matter how nice it is. I don't know how much time he spent here with Mal, but it's enough to make him start grieving all over again. I hope I can get him to snap out of it soon – we need a game plan. We can't just go waltzing up to the Enclave, and ask them to take us to their precious bunker. We have to find out where it is and see if we can sneak in, find Virgil, then get the Hell out.

I don't even know where to start!

* * *

 _Charon_

It tastes like sawdust in my mouth.

When I finish, I discard the can and stand by the balcony door – the place where Mallie'd have me stand when she was busy and wanted me out of the way.

"Charon, stop this. I can't do this on my own."

"Stop what?"

"The robot act."

"I must maintain control over my emotions to serve you effectively."

Wendy points to a spot close to the edge of the bed. "Stand here."

I obey.

Tears fill her eyes, but I force my face to remain blank.

She clambers up on the bed, stands, and looks into my face, nearly eye-level. She repeats, "I can't do this on my own."

Since she's not asking me a question, I don't respond.

She shoves her stump in my face, startling me. She raises her voice. "I got this for you. So you can do this for me!" She's angry. "We're both in pain right now," she says, her voice shaky. "I love her as much as you do."

"NO." I snarl. "No. You do NOT! I was hers, and she was mine." _She is so much more to me than you or anyone else will ever be, no matter how long I live._

"She's gone, Charon. And I need you."

My body, as if on auto-pilot, responds. I seize her head, draw it to me, and kiss her deeply. She fights at first, out of shock, and then relents. _I need you…_

When I disengage, she asks, "Do you want to pretend tonight?" _I know what she means. I can pretend I still have Mallie, she can pretend that it's Virgil with her._

"Yes."

"Turn off the light."

* * *

I still know it's not her, but in the darkness, it's easier to lose myself.

Her skin is smooth, soft, warm.

I can't help myself. I'm rough.

She clings to me for dear life.

* * *

 _Wendy_

As it turns out, betrayal is like killing. The more you do it, the easier it gets. Sad to say, but it's the only time I've felt anything out here. I tell him that he can turn me away if he wants, but I think that he needs it as much as I do. When we couple, it has always been in the dark, and almost silent. When we do speak, it's just single words:

"Yes!"

"Faster."

"Please…"

"There."

He says her name.

We don't speak each other's names. We aren't making love to each other.

Once you've given in to temptation, it's hard to find a reason to say no. A bond is developing between us. A bond of pain, grief, loss. A pale imitation of love, at best. But it's there. And it's all we have.


	18. A Mark of Selflessness

**Forty five years ago**

 _Maleficent_

My soul feels scorched, burned, raw.

I just spent three days out in the fuckin' wasteland, trying to stay alive. Because of him.

If I sound bitter, it's because I am.

If Eulogy was any closer, or his aim any better, I'd have been dead for sure. I booked it out of Paradise Falls with the help of my only Stealth Boy and a 9mm SMG, dripping blood the whole way. By the time I reached my pack, I was crawling on my hands and knees, my right side soaked red, hoping that I still had insides for the stimpaks to knit back together.

When I had time to triage, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was. Still ugly, but manageable. Everything on the inside was more or less intact – the stimpak I'd used shortly after being shot had repaired most of that damage. The skin, however – that'd look nasty. I used another stimpak, and crawled deeper into the crevice I'd shoved my pack in, exhausted. When I woke up, I saw the scar and swore a blue streak. My skin was smooth, flawless in the vault. Now it was peppered and crosshatched with scars. _Well, it's not the first, and it certainly won't be the last._

I know why it pisses me off – it's the first bullet I've taken for anyone else. All the rest, I've earned – through greed, cruelty, or stupidity. I guess I can chalk this one up to stupidity, too, though. I don't know why I thought that Eulogy'd just shake my hand, say "Nice knowin' ya," and let me waltz out the door, still good friends. When I told him I was quitting, I refused to give an explanation, which probably pissed him off something awful. But what was I gonna say? A few months and a spontaneous fuck with a ghoul, and I kept seeing his face when I tried to clap the collar on someone? I wasn't gonna risk my reputation to satisfy Eulogy's curiosity.

It was good money – shit, he even offered me more – but I couldn't fuckin' do it anymore.

I had to dump half the shit out of my pack to be able to carry it back. I felt weak; my insides fuckin' itched, burned. Not to mention, I had to sneak around to avoid slavers, all of which were looking for me after that debacle. Probably still are.

So, yeah. I'm fuckin' bitter.

* * *

I remember when I first saw him. I walked into the Ninth Circle and couldn't help but stare. I'd never seen anyone that big, much less a ghoul. I needed a man with a gun. I bought him. As far as I'm concerned, I bought him for a song. He's worth every cap, and then some.

He actually told me he loved me. I don't know what he expected me to feel, but I can tell he's disappointed. They're all the same – screw once, and they expect you to love 'em, act like you belong to them. I don't belong to nobody.

After the first time, I should've listened to my gut; told him to get lost, go back to Underworld. I couldn't help it – anyone who'd fight me the first time was worth keeping around. Anybody that'd slap me without a prompt was too rare to give up. The only other guy to do that was Jericho, but when the slaps turned into punches, I put a knife to his crotch and told him to get lost before I forced him to part with something he was very attached to.

I used to laugh at those shallow wasteland cunts who said they hated the guy they were with, but they wouldn't leave, because the sex was too good.

So, yeah – I can't let him go. Because the sex is too good.

And he can't let me go – even if he wanted to.

* * *

When I walk into the lobby at Tenpenny, nobody stares – everyone's used to me traipsing in with blood all over me. Just, most of the time, it's not mine. I feel nasty – I been moving for three days, being careful. Napping here and there, sneaking around. Eating on the go. I hadn't bathed since the day I left, so I bet I'm pretty fragrant.

He's almost on top of me as soon as I open the door, freaking out when he sees the torn, dirty clothes with huge bloodstains on them. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yeah – here's something you can do. Get your paws off me." He steps back and squares his shoulders, not used to being snapped at.

"Have some whiskey for me when I get out of the shower."

"Yes, mistress."

"Stop fuckin' calling me that."

"Yes, Mallie."

"Now don't look all dejected. After I get a shower, a drink, and a nap, you can have your fun." I smile as I peel off my shirt and toss it in the wastebasket. "Promise."

* * *

I crank up the hot water until it's just this side of tolerable and let it sear my skin. I soap myself down good, and finger the new, pink scar. _He's gonna go apeshit when he sees that._ He has a thing for my hair and skin. I figure he doesn't have much himself, and if he wants to covet mine, there's no harm in it. It feels good to be ogled sometimes.

I lean my forehead against the wall, and think. _I've not only crossed a bridge, I've burned it behind me._

There's no patching it up with Eulogy. I'm done slaving. Now, all I gotta do is live with what I did. Having a conscience is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth.

I indulge in fantasy – at one time, I thought that I'd be able to snatch Paradise Falls from Eulogy's control. That I could be the biggest, baddest motherfucker on the block. He treated me not only as a valuable asset to him, but almost as an equal. I fully expected him to make me his protégé, or second-in-command – but he didn't. Too paranoid. Since I had designs on his empire, I guess he was right to be paranoid.

Now I'd never get that chance.

I yell, "Charon, get me a towel!" I'd rushed in so quick that I'd forgotten one.

I soap up my hair – shampoo is hard to come by, so we just use what we have. I rinse, close my eyes, and stand in the spray, let the water run down the back of my legs. Fuck 'em – I'll use all the hot water I want. I've earned it.

I turn around; savor the warm water on my breasts, my stomach. I rub myself down with the palms of my hands, squeeze my breasts together, catch a little water between them, and then drop them, the pooled water making a satisfying little _splat_ sound in the tub. That's when I become aware of a slight rustling. "How long have you been in here?" I say, without opening my eyes. _Watching me shower, without me knowing. You perv._

"Since you asked me to get you a towel."

"Way to get yourself all wound up." I sigh. "I'm done anyway." I turn off the water, wring out my hair, and allow him to help me out of the tub, glancing at the significant bulge in the crotch of his pants as I step over the rim. _Wound up, indeed…that must be uncomfortable._ I hold up my arms and let him wrap the towel around me. "Where's my whiskey?"

"On your nightstand."

I smile. "You know me too well."

* * *

After a double, I change my mind about the nap. I'm not as tired as I thought I was, and he's ready, eager, and more than willing.

The way our "arrangement" works is that I command him to command me. He's not allowed to bind or gag me, but anything goes – with a word, I can stop him instantly, if it gets too rough.

"I'm yours."

Commanding someone instead of taking orders must be intoxicating for him. He jumps into the role with gusto.

He tosses the towel away and fusses over my skin, examining my new scar, tracing it with the pad of one coarse index finger. He asks where I got it, how I got it, who gave it to me, but I refuse to answer. I'll either tell him later, or never, depends on how I feel. "Are you gonna fuck me, or give me the first, second, and third degree?" I sneer.

He slaps my cheek, hard, making me gasp with pleasure, and sending delicious shivers down my body. "This is my show, now." He growls. "Not yours."

"Yes _sir_."

"Roll over."

Just for the sake of being obstinate, I roll over slowly – or try to. He shoves me over the rest of the way, and pushes me into the mattress, my head dangling over the edge. He straddles me, leans down, whispers in my ear. "The anticipation must be killing you."

My eyes close, I shiver. He chuckles.

He nips my ear lobe, eliciting a surprised squeal. "Is that what you like?" I moan in response. My damp hair drapes over the edge of the bed.

He leans into me, pushing me deeper into the mattress. I can sense his bulk, his strength, his _maleness,_ and it drives me wild. I squirm underneath him, rubbing against his crotch, and I'm rewarded with a frustrated grunt. "Do you want me?" he asks.

"Mmm…"

"Say it." he orders.

"Yes, yes, I want you." I plead.

"I'm not convinced." he teases. He lifts himself off of me. "On your knees."

He parts my legs, positions himself between them. Although still clothed, I can feel the heat of him behind me. He reaches to my shoulders, rakes his nails down my back. "Oh, will you stop playing and fuck me already?"

He presses a coarse finger near my opening, teases it. "No."

"You evil thing."

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak." He says. I clamp my mouth shut, obediently, biting my lower lip. "The next time you speak out of turn, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

He pushes a finger into me, and I stifle a moan. I tighten around him, and he pushes in another finger, making me gasp, gripping the sheets. He pumps them a few times, listening to me, feeling me. "Do you want me?" he asks, again.

"Oh, yes." I moan.

"Beg me."

I'm surprised. This hasn't happened before. _"Please."_

"Please, what?"

"Oh, please. Please fuck me. _Please._ " I tremble as I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of his trousers falling. He presses against my opening.

"Oh, yes…" I whisper.

He smacks my ass with a heavy hand, and I cry out. "Shut up." He thrusts into me abruptly, hard, and I wail; push against him. His pace is fast, vigorous. He pulls my hips toward his, pulling my knees up off the bed. "Say my name!"

"Oh, Charon!"

"Say it!" He's thrusting into me hard, almost painful.

"Charon, yes!"

"Louder!" He slaps my ass hard, sending delicious waves of pain up my body.

The warmth between my legs spreads, becomes a fire that consumes my body from the inside out. "CHARON!" I scream, my elbows giving way, body bucking, and I tighten around him. He squeezes my hips painfully as he thrusts once, twice, and groans loudly through gritted teeth as he finds his release.

There's no way I'm letting this go.


	19. Making Plans

_Wendy_

I wake in the morning; take a shower while he sleeps. I feel my left palm itching, burning, and try to ignore it. There's nothing I can do about it anyway. If I reach over and find empty air, it'd just frustrate me, make me angry, and make things harder.

As always, I spend a good part of my time justifying what we did. What we do.

We need each other. We have to cope somehow. We don't love each other, so we're not really cheating. Excuses, all of them.

I know how Virgil will see it. I'm the one that started this – I betrayed him. I cheated. The vows we took mean nothing now. And Charon? He poached on his own son's territory.

I lean my forehead against the wall, as tears roll down my cheeks. The shame is almost unbearable. Almost.

* * *

 _Virgil_

Joseph comes to get me this morning; tells me to dress in my uniform instead of the jumpsuit. "There's someone I'd like you to meet," he says, sporting a broad grin.

"Who?" I ask.

"I think I'll let her introduce herself." He leads me to the same room where I first met him, and quickly retreats back down the hall.

Sitting in a chair is a woman about my age, slender, dressed in a support personnel jumpsuit. She rises slowly, and blinks nervously. "You must be Virgil," she says, hands clasped in front of her. "Hi. I'm Emily."

"Hi." I smile. She's very pretty, even in a baggy jumpsuit with her dark hair tied back in a rough ponytail. We sit across from one another. The atmosphere is awkward, and I decide to fill the silence. "Why did they want me to meet you? Why am I here?"

"Oh – they didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"When we were little. We were… _matched._ " Her dark brown eyes flit around the room, anxiously. She wrings her hands in her lap.

I jump to my feet and stalk to the door. "JOSEPH!" He appears almost immediately.

"What is this?" I hiss at him, pointing at her. "You know I'm married."

"Virgil, there is no harm in meeting her."

I sigh. _No, I suppose not._ "Why don't you two go to the mess hall, get something to eat? Talk for a little bit. She could answer any questions you have about living here in the bunker," he suggests.

I think about Wendy. Where is she, while I'm on a lunch date with another woman? Well, not just another woman – a woman that was promised to me, probably before we were even born.

I look over my shoulder at Emily, who is fidgeting nervously. "Well…I am hungry."

* * *

 _Charon_

I lay on Mallie's side of the bed, clutching the pillow to my face. I can't smell her on it – it's been too long – but she laid her head on it once. That's good enough for me.

I can hear Wendy in the shower.

I can remember when Mallie'd take soaks in the tub, and asked me to read to her, or tell her a story. She liked listening to my voice. At first, I didn't speak much at all. When the contract started to fade into the background, she was still brusque with me sometimes, but a tenderness crept its way in. I remember how she'd dip her head under the water, and come back up dripping, smiling, content. I remember when she stepped out, pink and wrinkly, and I'd wrap a soft white towel under her arms.

I reluctantly pull myself away from my memories, and into the present. I decide that I want to go to the Citadel first. If anyone knows where the bunker is, the Brotherhood would. A stop by Underworld would be nice, too – I have an idea for something to help Wendy, and hopefully Moira is still there to help make it a reality.

As anxious as I am to get Virgil back, I have a feeling that they won't hurt him. When they took him, they treated him like he was important. We need a little bit of time to get the lay of the land before I come up with a plan. Getting him out isn't gonna be easy.

Man, I'm dyin' for a cigarette. Wendy's probably jonesin' pretty bad, too. We ran out a while back, and figured we'd better save our caps.

Hopefully we can find some raiders along the way, and persuade them out of their weapons and chems, so we can sell 'em. It's bad enough out here without nicotine withdrawals.

* * *

"If you stopped catching bullets, we'd make better time." I growl.

She sits on a rock, bent over with her elbows on her thighs, forearm trickling blood. I hit her with a Med-X and start digging a bullet out of her shoulder.

She grits her teeth and grunts loudly as I reach in with a set of forceps and wiggle the errant piece of lead. "Can't we just leave that one in there?" she asks.

I roll my eyes. "We could. Medically speaking, it wouldn't do much harm. This one isn't too far in, and isn't close to anything vital." Then again, the one in my ass isn't near anything vital, and we never bothered digging that one out. Best not to mention that.

"However," I continue, "It could have taken cloth in there with it, which could breed infection."

She shouted in pain as I plucked it out. I irrigated the wound with vodka – eliciting more shouting and swearing – then hit it with one of our dwindling collection of stimpaks. Luckily, it was in the same side as the through-and-through in her forearm. "We need more stimpaks. Let's strip these idiots, and sell all their shit."

"Boy, you're in a bad mood today." she observes.

I grumble as I pack up the medical supplies. "Here," she says. "This'll make you feel better." She tosses something in my direction, and I catch it reflexively. It's a pack of cigarettes. "Smoke one of those. Much more of your bitching, and I'm gonna wanna put a bullet in _myself."_ She jokes.

"Where'd you get these?" I ask.

"There was a whole carton of 'em in that footlocker over there. Merry Christmas, big guy."

I fish Mallie's lighter out of my pocket, flick it, and hurriedly light one. "Mmm…." My head swims deliciously for a few seconds, and I close my eyes, the hot smoke filling my lungs as I breathe in deeply.

Wendy laughs. "Do you two need a moment alone?"

I hand her the lighter, and she plucks another pack of cigarettes from a side pocket of her pack. After fumbling with the packaging for a bit, she manages to extract one, lights it, then tosses the lighter back to me. She inhales, then exhales through her nose – clearly enjoying herself, although not as much as I did, apparently.

"How far away is this Citadel?" she asks.

"Not far. It's in your Pip-Boy, I checked. One of the markers that wasn't corrupted."

"Hmm…" she says, fiddling with it.

I frown. "Finding it isn't the issue, however. It's getting inside. Your illustrious mother-in-law didn't make many friends there, either."

* * *

 **About Forty-Seven Years Ago**

 _Lilith_

Playing Freddy, Wally, and Butch against each other is the most entertaining thing I've done in, well, ever.

It's obvious to everyone that I'll be paired with Butch. Dad has been pushing me towards him for a while now. Even though pairings are announced around eighteen, this generation is so small that it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who'll be paired with whom.

Butch and I have been a hot item for a while now. So I seduced Freddy, for the hell of it. Not only that, I started makin' goo-goo eyes at Wally, which drove Butch batshit.

I was caught with Freddy, of course – both Dad and the Overseer were pretty steamed. After a tense meeting in the Overseer's office, Dad told me to stop screwing around…then gave me a handful of condoms and told me if I was gonna screw around anymore, to use 'em. Sure, he was disappointed in me – but I can live with that.

It's gonna get real fun tonight at the Overseer's Day party.

I put on my dress and head towards the mess hall when Butch grabs my arm and drags me into a maintenance closet. "What the fuck are you thinking? I thought we were goin' steady!" he hisses at me.

"We are." I reply.

"What happened?" he squeezes my arm tightly, painfully. I put on my most pathetic mask.

"He made me, Butch."

"That's a lie! Tunnel Snakes don't take each other's girls!" he snarls.

"What? Scared that he's more of a man than you?" I retort. His arm swings back, and he slaps me in the mouth. I'm instantly wet.

I grab his jacket, pull him towards me, and kiss him, forcefully. He fights at first, then softens when he realizes my enthusiasm. I break my mouth away from his. "Now." I turn around, flip up my dress, and pull down my panties.

He can't help himself.

* * *

The party is awfully tense. I get a thrill that I'm the one that's made it that way.

Freddy asks me for a dance, and then Wally cuts in. Butch stalks up, shoves them both back, and the brawl is on. All the adult males in the room struggle to get the teenagers under control. I back away to the wall, with a smirk on my face. Dad meets my eyes, and shakes his head. "Young lady, we're going home." He grabs my arm and drags me back to our room.

Once in private, he gives me a pill. "Take this. God knows you didn't use a condom."

"But Daddy, I didn't do anything." I chirp, sweetly.

"Oh, stop lying." He hands me a glass of water. "I don't know who you slept with, but I know you slept with someone. You're my daughter." I toss the pill in my mouth, and wash it down. He shakes his head, mumbles, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Deserve what? Are you ashamed of me?" I accuse.

"I just wish you could control yourself. Until you're paired up. Why you turn those boys against each other, I'll never know." He sighs.

"Because it's fun." I say, defiantly.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me…what did you say? It's 'fun'?"

"Yeah. It's boring here. I have to get some entertainment somewhere."

"And manipulating people is the best way for you to do that?"

"I like it."

"Well…try to stop it. For a while. Until things die down." He sighs. "I'm going to catch Hell from the Overseer for this." He meets my eyes. "I hope it was worth it."

I smile.


	20. Familiar Faces

_Charon_

We come to a wall – not one of rubble, but built purposefully. We follow it for a little, and I stop, lean towards it. "Listen."

"What is that?" she asks.

"If I didn't know any better, it sounds like a car. " Her eyes widen in excitement. She hops up and down, like a little girl about to get her presents at her birthday party, wide grin on her face.

I frown, thoughtfully. "We have to find a gate, I guess."

"This wasn't here before?"

"M- Wendy, it's been forty years. I'm sure things have changed." _Shit. Almost called her Mallie again._

* * *

 _Wendy_

We stand at the gate, arms up, two Brotherhood soldiers in power armor with weapons trained at us. "Charon, I hope you know what you're doing."

"Just relax. They'll know who she is, and who I am. They found us, didn't they?" _Point taken._

We stand for a while, and I start to get more than a little impatient. I've been having really bad mood swings lately, now that I think about it. "We've had our arms up for ten minutes already. Probably more. How long's this gonna take?"

"Your bitching isn't gonna make it any shorter." He snaps.

"EXCUSE me?" My left arm goes down to my side, stump on my hip, and my right index finger pointed at him. "And who the fuck do you think you are, talkin' to me like that?"

One of the soldiers says, nervously, "Miss, put your hands up. Please."

Incensed, I wave my stump. "REALLY? HANDS? Is that supposed to be a fuckin' JOKE?"

"Wendy, not helping."

I point at him again. "No. No, now it's fuckin' PERSONAL."

Charon sighs. "Wendy, it won't be too much longer."

"Miss, get your arms up. I've been authorized to – " a rude squawk interrupts him. "Torres, let 'em in."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

Scribe Rothchild meets us when we walk in. "Scribe Rothchild! Nice to see you again!"

"Please…call me Sarah. I'm sorry about the wait. I had a hard time finding a ride here. Would you like a tour?"

"Is that…is that a CAR?"

"Oh, yes. We've had some working for about ten years now." She sighs, irritably. "Not enough, unfortunately."

Charon interrupts. "We need to get to the Citadel."

"And what business do you have there?" she asks.

"We need to know the location of the Enclave bunker."

She laughs. "Raven Rock? We'd love to know that ourselves."

I frown. "Wait – Mal was there. She didn't tell you where it is?"

"Unfortunately, no. A contingent of Brotherhood picked her up at a Satcom array northwest of here." She pointed at the marker on the map of my Pip-Boy. "I've studied the Lyon's Pride records extensively. It's cross-referenced."

"We need to go." Charon said, brusquely. He paused. "Is Underworld still there?"

"Oh, yes," replied Sarah. "I've been escorted through the Museum many times."

"Can we get a ride there?" I ask. "In a car?"

Sarah sighs. "I'll see. All vehicles belong to the Brotherhood right now. We're the only ones with the resources and the pre-war knowledge to operate and repair them. I'll have to see if I can requisition one."

* * *

 _Charon_

She waves her arm out the window and laughs gaily. It's nice to hear that sound again.

 _Why on Earth did they make these things so small?_ I squirm, trying to find a position that won't make me stiff later. My knees are bent sharply, and I'm hunched over, uncomfortable. _Perhaps I was made too big. I don't suppose there's too much I can do about that._

A Brotherhood soldier – without armor – is driving, and Scribe Rothchild is in the front seat, yammering on about the valuable artifacts that she'd found in the museum. Personally, I couldn't give a shit less – I just wanna get there, get a bed, and go the fuck to sleep.

"Where'd all the super mutants go?" I ask.

"Cleared 'em out, 'bout twenty years ago." Said the driver. Hawkins, I think. "We still have problems with raiders from time to time, but they're easy enough to take care of."

Wendy looks at me, her eyes sparkling, twin sapphires.

How long has it been since I've seen genuine joy on her face? How long will it be until I see it again? I can't help but be pessimistic. I feel a little guilty – I should just enjoy the moment, but I can't help but think of the horrors the future might bring.

* * *

Greta's standing outside the door, smoking. "Long time, no see."

I nod at her, and hold the door for Wendy – who, after a few steps, stands stock-still in shock. "Are you okay?" I ask. "Yeah, uh…I just – "

"What?"

"I just didn't think that there was this many." I can understand her surprise. It's shocking to see one ghoul, but to see a dozen of them, all at once?

"Come on. Let's get a room. I can show you around in the morning."

She follows me up the stairs and into Carol's Place – which looks much as I remember it almost fifty years earlier. Carol is obviously surprised to see me –when Mallie and I left, she probably expected not to see either of us ever again. "Why Charon, welcome back! And who is this pretty young thing?"

"That's Wendy. Wendy, this is Carol."

"Nice to meet you, sweetie! Do you need a room? Something to eat?" Completely disarmed, Wendy replies, "Oh, I'm pretty tired. We just need a place to sack out for the night."

Carol hands her the room key. "Here you go! Right there on your left."

I nod to Wendy to head on over. "I'll pay."

As soon as Wendy is out of earshot, Carol asks, "Charon, where's Mallie? What happened?" I take a deep breath – I knew that I'd have to explain things, over and over again. Maybe after the first time, it'll get easier.

"She's gone." Carol frowns. "Wasteland Pain Syndrome." She gasps, clutches her chest. "I'm so sorry. And her, she's?"

"Daughter-in-law."

"You had a son? But how –? "

"Adopted." I pause. "Can you do something for me?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Tell all this to Greta, so I don't have to repeat it." Everyone knows that Greta's a gossip – the perfect vocation for someone who serves liquor.

"You can go next door and tell her yourself. We took over the bar – it's Greta's Place." She smiles. "She should be back from her smoke break by now."

I stop by the room to ask Wendy if she wants to go to the bar for a drink, and find her curled up on the mattress, out cold. I cover her with a blanket, and head on over to the bar.

* * *

Greta slides a beer over to me, rests her elbows on the bar. "So…you screwin' this one, too?" she asks, careful to keep her voice down. The bar's not busy, but it'll be picking up in an hour or two.

"None of your fuckin' business." I growl.

"That's a yes." _Great…now everyone's gonna know._ "Who is she? You just got real uncomfortable there for a second, like you didn't want anyone to know." _It's pointless to hide it from her. She'll find out from Carol anyway._

"My daughter-in-law. Adopted son."

"Good one, Charon. You should be ashamed." She takes a rag, starts wiping down the bar. "Where's the son?"

"Kidnapped by the Enclave." Her eyebrows shoot up – which I find comical, because nothing seems to faze Greta – at least, nothing has in my recollection. "And you guys are chasin' him down, huh?" She shakes her head. "He's not gonna be happy. He's gonna blame you."

"I know."

"So…whose fault was it really? Hers?" she inquires.

"No." I snarl.

She smirks. "No, it was her. I can tell. You're too angry for it to've been you."

"How do you know it was her?"

"Simple. You'd do anything to protect an employer. You care about this one, just like the last one. Her reputation means something to you." She picks up a glass and starts to clean it. "A word of advice: I don't know how many times it's happened, but don't let it happen again. The more you screw her, the harder it's gonna be to tell your son." She sets the glass down on the bar. "So – what happened to Mal?" she asks.

I clench the beer bottle. "She's dead."

"Ah, shit, I'm sorry."

"I miss her…so much…" being back in this place, the place where she came back for me after the whole mess with the purifier, is painful. The bed is gone, but her ghost is here.

"Charon, go get some sleep. You look tired."

"Good idea." I pay her, go back to the room, and lay on the bed.

* * *

 _Wendy_

I can't believe how tired I was. I don't even remember falling asleep – I just put my pack down, lay on the bed, and was out like a light.

I'm still a little nervous about leaving the room on my own – I'm the only smoothskin here, after all – so I just decide to lie on the bed and think until Charon wakes up. My mind drifts back in time. I remember before all this started, before Mal started hurting. I remember going to dinner at their house one night, Virgil walking me home, holding my hand. My left hand itches with the memory, and I try to ignore it, then give up, and rub where it used to be. The stitches are long gone – some dissolved, some torn out accidentally. The ugly scars are pink, puckered.

I remember the first time I saw Charon in town, standing behind Mal, quiet, stock-still. Larger than life; larger than any person I'd ever seen. I'd seen ghouls before – lots of them are moving out west because it's more comfortable out there for them – so his appearance didn't startle me. Mal was haggling with a merchant, and he stood guard, one large hand on Virgil's shoulder. I was about seven, I think. My mom explained to me that they were our neighbors, even though we couldn't even see their house, we lived so far away.

I already knew Virgil. He came to my house for school – my mom taught all the kids out in the country how to read and write; before she married my dad, she was a teacher out in town. Before she knew it, there were kids walking miles to learn, bringing gifts from their parents as payment. Virgil was the only one that brought caps.

My mom let me go say hi to Virgil. I think she knew even then that we'd wind up married. She'd get that dreamy look on her face, a soft smile on her lips. I remember how Virgil tugged on Charon's arm. "Daddy, this is Wendy." He towered over me. Well, he towers over everyone, but it was especially intimidating for a seven year old girl, small for her age.

"Hi, sir. Nice ta meetcha." I held out my little hand, and he held out a few fingers, which I grasped eagerly, astonished at the size of him.

"Nice to meet you too," he rumbled, "now run along." I giggled and ran back to my mom, grasped her skirts, glancing back at them shyly.

Later that night, my siblings grilled me on how big he was, what his hand felt like – and a dozen other questions that I couldn't answer. I might be the smallest, but I'm the bravest. At least, that's what my daddy told me.

* * *

Charon leads me downstairs, introduces me to a ghoul named Moira.

"Oh, nice ta see ya again, big guy! What can I do for ya?"

"I need a prosthetic made. For my…friend. She needs to be able to shoot a rifle."

I hold out my arm, and she studies it for a bit. "I have an idea. When do you need it?"

"As soon as you can get it done."

"It should take a couple days – maybe three, if I need to fit it again."

"Let us know when it's ready."

"You betcha!" she begins to mutter to herself, cheerfully.

As we turn, a ghoul in a doctor's coat hollers at us. "Charon! I heard you were back. Only took you fifty years." He turns to me. "Hello, young lady. I'm Barrows – the doctor here in Underworld."

"I'm Wendy." It's then that he catches sight of my left arm.

His eyes widen, and he addresses Charon. "Another one? You seem to have pretty shitty luck with employers. At least the last one kept all her parts."

Charon growls. "I don't need this shit right now."

"What happened with Mal?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

Charon grumbles, crosses his arms, and turns away. "She was shot in the leg by a slaver with a sawed-off. Nicked artery. Almost died. _Someone_ was slow on the draw."

"Interesting," I say, waving my stump, "a shotgun got me, too."

He looks closer at it. "Must've been pretty close to take all of it. _Someone_ must be getting sloppy." Charon's back stiffens, but he stays silent.

"It…it wasn't his fault. I pushed him out of the way, and, well, it got me."

He sighs, shakes his head. "Well, at least I didn't have to clean up after this one."

Charon had apparently had enough. He whirls around, grabs Barrows by the shirt, and shoves him up against the wall. "Look, I'm gettin' sick and tired of your sh -"

"Charon, STOP!" I yell.

He immediately drops Barrows and backs off. "Don't hurt anyone here unless they threaten you. Or me. Mal might have let you beat people up for no reason, but I won't."

"Yes, Wendy." Barrows backs up quickly and retreats into the Chop Shop.

"Now, what else do we need to do?" I ask him.

"We need stimpaks. Ammo. We're runnin' low on food, too."

"Well, let's get that, then."

* * *

We trade the stuff we stripped off the raiders to Tulip for some stimpaks and ammo. We were able to get food for a ridiculously low price from Carol, who seemed extra nice to me for some reason. Well, she's regularly nice, but even for her, it's out of character.

Later, in the room, I ask Charon, "What did you tell Carol? Why's she being so nice?"

"She must know about Virgil by now. Oh, and before you find it out from someone else, Greta knows…about us."

My heart almost stops. "What? How? You TOLD?!"

"No, she guessed. Wendy, we need to stop."

 _We've had this conversation several times. All it takes is a moment of weakness, or loneliness, or grief, and we're back at square one._ "I know."

"How are we gonna explain it to Virgil?"

"He doesn't have to know." I answer hastily.

He sighs. "Wendy…he's gonna figure it out."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." I snap.

"Wendy…what happens if…" he trails off.

"If what?"

"If we start to have feelings for each other? What then?"

I know guilt is written on my face. I've already started to have feelings for him. It's impossible not to love someone that has comforted you in your darkest moments, seen you at your most vulnerable. I can see it on his face, too. The same look.

"There is no 'if,' Charon." I say. "We already have."

"No, I – " he starts.

I hold my hand up to silence him. "Just let it be what it is."

"What is it?"

"I don't know."


	21. Once in a Lifetime

Charon

I miss her so much.

It seems like I'm saying this everywhere…but I can't wait until we leave this place. I start to think that her ghost isn't haunting places, it's following me, sowing memories as we travel. If I could cry, I probably would.

But I can't.

I head outside for a smoke break and to shoot the shit with Willow. Wendy sits on the steps by herself. She waved me off; said she needed time to think about things. I notice that her orders are becoming brusquer. She veiled them before – phrased them as requests. Now, she doesn't make much of an effort. The wasteland is changing her. She reminds me so much of Mal that it hurts.

Willow greets me. "Welcome back."

I nod. "How've the last forty years treated ya?"

She chuckles. "I can't complain. At least the Brotherhood leaves me alone."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Your girl Mal – she told 'em to leave us the fuck alone." I smile. Yeah, she'd do that. She had a soft spot in her heart for ghouls. I smile. Wonder why.

"What happened to her, Charon? Why are you with Blondie over there?" she asks, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

I frown. "Mal's dead. Wasteland Pain Syndrome." I drawl around my cigarette.

"Ah shit, I'm sorry." She shifts her weight, takes a long drag, probably thinking of the best thing to say. "I know you loved her. Everyone else may've thought she was just a lay to you, but I knew better."

"More than life itself…" I trail off, and she pats my arm.

"You're lucky."

I start, frown at her. She elaborates. "You're lucky enough to've loved someone like that. And have them been in love with you." She smiles, wistfully, then smirks. "Frankly, I'm jealous. You know what they say, 'It's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.'"

Good point. I nod and smile. "I miss her."

"Good. I'd be worried about you if you didn't."

* * *

 **About Forty-Four Years Ago**

Maleficent

My insides throb, and I enjoy it.

He couldn't help it. We were in an abandoned building, scavenging. We needed to raise money for our trip west. He surprised me; bent me over a desk, ripped down my pants, and fucked me raw.

It makes me think of the first time, how he pushed me into the picnic table. I fought him, and he fought back. He thrusted into me roughly, painfully. I screamed and bucked against him; he pushed me hard into the rough wood until he finished with me. God only knows how long it'd been for him. Didn't take him long – it'd probably been a long time.

I loved it.

Even in the wasteland, it's hard to find a man that's okay with slapping me around in the bedroom. Surprisingly, he's the gentle one – he introduced me to slow, tender lovemaking. It's not earth-shaking, but the connection is powerful, intensely erotic. When he kisses me, I'm transported to another world, another time, another place, where I'm different. Loving, gentle, tender – what he deserves, but what I can never be for him.

It still sounds strange to me say that I love him, but I do. I never thought those words would ever cross my lips. He waited for weeks, months, in desperate, unfathomable pain, to hear me say it. I was scared, angry, and hesitant. I didn't want to attach myself to anyone. I don't think I'll ever to be able to make it up to him.

At least now he can hold me at night and whisper into my ear that he loves me, and he'll receive an answer.

I love him.

More than life itself.


	22. Time May Change Me

_Wendy_

"It figures that you shoot better without a hand."

I smirk at him. "Shut the fuck up." The prosthesis that Moira made is ingenious. It fits underneath my Pip-Boy harness, and being rubber coated, holds the handgrips of the assault rifle better than my hand ever could.

We took advantage of the abandoned trenches around the museum to get in some target practice. I know it makes him feel a lot better that I can use a long-range weapon instead of depending on that SMG. "Maybe now you won't get so pissy all the time."

He points at my SMG, which I have holstered on my right hip. "That thing sprays bullets everywhere. It's only a matter of time before you shoot me in the back."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Not on purpose." He retorts. "Friendly fire is NOT friendly."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Pissy McWhinypants."

"Hey, I ain't too keen on catching another bullet in my ass. You wouldn't be, either."

"You got shot in the ass?" I don't know why it's funny, but I can't help laughing.

He shakes his head and rubs his eyes in frustration. "Yes."

I can only imagine the raft of shit that Mal gave him for that. "I bet Mal teased you mercilessly."

He snorts, and smiles wickedly. "She paid for it. Dearly."

We head back towards the museum, and I flop down on a bench, then dig pack of cigarettes out my pocket. "Have a seat." I hand him a cigarette, and he lights both with Mal's lighter. "My hair's gettin' shaggy. I need to swing by Snowflake and get a trim." He squirms, uncomfortable with the haircut talk. "Maybe I should just shave the whole thing off. Save me the trouble of worrying what it looks like."

He squints at me. "You wouldn't."

"You're right. I wouldn't."

He takes a long pull on his cigarette, then exhales, "It's a shame that you do not care what you look like."

I frown at him. "Why does it matter so much to you?"

He stares up at the sky, thoughtfully. "If you didn't have skin or hair, then you'd understand. Go look in a mirror sometime. Be thankful you have what you do." I nod.

"So, uh – not to change the subject, but where do we go from here?" I ask.

"Can't wait to leave, huh?" he says.

"I want to get him back."

"Don't worry, Wendy. They won't hurt him."

"How do you know that?"

He waves his hand in the air, leaving trails of tobacco smoke in its wake. "Did you see how they treated him before they loaded him on the vertibird? Like he was Enclave royalty. They won't hurt him. He's special to them, for some reason."

 _I never thought about that._ "Then I've been worrying for nothing, then."

"Probably." He scratches his face, absentmindedly. "I figure we'll head out to the Sat Array where the Brotherhood guys picked up Mal on her way back, work from there."

"Sounds like a good plan. Let's spend another day here. Tomorrow we can get our shit together, get loaded up on supplies, then we can head out the next morning." I sound so authoritative that I surprise myself. I drop my cigarette butt on the ground, and grind it into the pavement with the toe of my boot. "Let's get back, go get something to eat. Relax for once."

"As you wish."

* * *

I stand in the bathroom, staring in the dingy mirror. I'd wet one of my shirtsleeves and wiped it, but two hundred and fifty years of grime is gonna take a bit more elbow grease than I have patience for at the moment.

I don't know this person staring back at me. My face is hard, angular – the soft roundness it once had is gone. My eyes are direct and piercing – they remind me of the way Mal's were. My arms are lean, wiry. My hair…oh, my hair. It's a short, shaggy blond mop. It used to be halfway down my back. I'd brush it in the morning and the evening. Virgil loved to run his hands through it. My heart aches. When we find him, will he even recognize me? I look nothing like the soft, innocent country girl he'd fell in love with. I lift my left arm, look at my new prosthetic. I'm becoming someone new, someone harder, angrier. I'm not sure if I like this person I'm becoming – but I suppose I'll have to live with myself, whether I like it or not.

* * *

 _Charon_

It's not true. Time doesn't heal all wounds.

Those wounds scab over, and you pick at 'em. When they do heal, it leaves a nasty scar. I've noticed that the sting has slowly dissolved out of my memories of her. The sadness is still there, but so is a sense of thankfulness, of gratitude, that I got to spend so much time with her.

Yeah, what Willow said helped. We had something. Something very special, very precious. It is not gone, just because she's gone. Some never have the opportunity to love like we did.

I am grateful.

* * *

 **About Eighteen Years Ago**

 _Maleficent_

I rest an elbow on our new Brahmin cart and sigh, surveying our new property. "So, this is it. Never thought I'd actually settle down." He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I snake one around his waist. "And I never thought it would be a ranch, out west. "

"Yeah, well…life is funny like that." He says, with a dreamy half-smile.

"Let's go move some furniture. And by 'let's', I mean you." The worn wood of the porch steps creaks satisfyingly as we climb them. I turn the knob and push inward. "I don't remember paying for a rug."

"I bought it." he says, with a shrug.

"And since when do you have a mind of your own?" I ask, playfully.

"Since you stopped giving me direct orders."

Before I step inside, he scoops me up in his arms. I squeal, grab onto his neck. "What're you doing?"

"I've always wanted to do this." He carries me inside to the back of the house, lays me on the bed, and crouches next to it. "Ah, the old 'carry the bride across the threshold' bit. A little late, wouldn't you say?"

"Only twenty-seven years. Once you get over a hundred, you tend to get sentimental."

I grin at him. "Ah. For a minute there, I thought you'd gone soft on me."

His hand creeps under my shirt. "There's no danger of that happening anytime soon."

I chuckle and gently push his hand away. "Hey, now – we have to get back to Virgil soon."

"No we don't." he smirks.

"What do you mean, 'no we don't?'"

"Betty's gonna watch him all night." Betty is the innkeeper's wife. She loves Virgil almost as much as we do.

I squint at him. "This couldn't have been your idea. She just likes having a baby around to spoil." I can't help but feel a little jealous.

He shakes his finger at me. "Hey, be nice. She taught you everything you know about takin' care of him." He pauses. "It was my idea. I was…selfish. I wanted some time alone with you."

"Really?" I smile, untie my boots, and kick them off.

"Really." He smiles, "and out here, we can be as loud as we want." After years of having to be mindful of the noise we made, just the thought of being able to let go for one evening is intoxicating. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I grab him by the wrist and place his hand on my breastbone, so he can feel it. It was because of the noise that he hadn't slapped me in a long time. Pinches, scratches, and bites had to suffice. He didn't like pulling my hair…for obvious reasons.

"In that case…" he stiffens, anticipating an order. "…come here."

I scoot over, and he slides into the bed. The bed frame creaks under his weight – unfortunately, we weren't able to find a sturdy bed frame on such short notice, so this one will have to do for the time being.

"You want me, don't you?" I ask, caressing the exposed muscles of his face. I can feel him tremble under my touch. We've been staying at the inn, in the same room with the baby, for two weeks. He feels like a wild animal straining at the limit of its tether. With a simple phrase, I can set him free, unleash him on my body. His throat rumbles, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. "Take me, Charon. I'm yours."

"Mine." He whispers, cupping my cheek. Slowly, he draws my face to his. My lips part, and his tongue darts inside my mouth, first hesitantly, then more insistent. He must be feeling gentle today – this isn't what I expected. His hand slides down my body, fingers the ugly scar, a gift from Eulogy, the only bullet I took for anyone else. His warm, dry lips break away from mine, and he meets my eyes. "Mine."

He lifts himself off the bed and undresses me slowly, tossing each article of clothing to the floor. I look up at him as he removes his own. He still turns away from me – after almost thirty years together, he's still uncomfortable, ashamed of his appearance. I've stopped talking to him about it. I figure that if he's not comfortable by now, he probably won't ever be. I close my eyes and lay back, in deference to his request, one that he asked of me long ago – not to look at him when he undresses. In the beginning, this wasn't an issue; it was just sex, and it didn't bother me that all he did was unzip and take care of business. I got what I wanted. I wasn't interested in his insecurities.

Now that I love him, I wish that I can banish his shame. I want to steal his pain away. Make him whole again.

I shiver as I feel the mattress shift under his weight. He parts my legs and positions himself between them. He leans over me and kisses me deeply, and I moan into his mouth when I feel him grind his hard length against my stomach. I knead his broad back, tracing the contours of rough, rended skin and smooth muscle. He kisses his way down to my neck, finds a soft, tender spot, and locks lips on it, sucking deeply, insistently. I buck against him, gasping. When he stops, he pauses, his hot breath on my skin, brushing through my hair. He shifts back, his hands slide smoothly up and down my body, caressing every inch.

He focuses on my scar – _his_ scar. He rubs it with his thumb, traces it with a coarse finger, then leans over me and kisses it, a soft moan escaping my lips. I take his head in my hands, run my fingers through his sparse hair. He looks up at me, and I pull gently, urging him to make me his.

He slides up my body, and even after all our years together, I'm captivated by his smooth, coordinated movements. His is the easy strength of a jungle cat; for a split second I freeze, suddenly aware of how dangerous he is, how easy it would be for him to hurt me, to kill me, and it sends a perverse thrill down my spine.

I moan as he eases inside of me and wrap my legs around him, drawing him deeper, closer. I can feel his weight atop me, and sense the size of him. I inhale deeply the smell of him – wet copper, tanned leather, the faint tang of gunpowder. "Oh, Mallie…" he whispers into my ear, hot breath tickling. I squeeze him deliciously, and he grunts with pleasure.

For one brief moment, I can almost swear that we're back in the suite. I'm young again; our love is fresh, new, exciting, and more than a little scary. I slip an arm around his neck, pull his lips to mine, kiss them chastely. "Oh, Charon…"I murmur. His rhythm is slow, even, and I can hear the gentle creak of the bed frame, his deep exhalations in my ear. I feel the heat begin to gather beneath my navel, "faster," I plead, and he obeys.

The bed creaks insistently with each of his powerful thrusts. "I love you, Mallie" he whispers between gasps, a split second before something explodes inside of me, a fire burning me from the inside out. My throaty scream fills the room, followed by his guttural shout, as he releases himself inside of me.

We lay, panting. "I love you too."


	23. Hot on the Trail

_Virgil_

I ask to go outside again, and I'm denied. What – are they afraid that I'll run away? With no weapon, dressed like I am – and no idea where I am? It's driving me batty. The rest of these people grew up in this cursed cave. I'm used to clouds, sky, wind, the sun on my face, and the dirt beneath my feet.

Emily doesn't understand, but she tries her best to console me. She doesn't know the reason they're keeping me down here, and if Joseph knows, he's not telling. I pass a lot of time reading in the library, practicing in the range with the Enclave's bewildering array of energy weapons, or in their gym, where I shoot the shit with the soldiers that have been outside recently. If I can't go outside, I can at least find a vicarious thrill in the stories of people with much more freedom than I have.

It's been about two months, I think. I'm not sure. When you can't see the sun, it's hard to judge. I don't even know if it's day or night – all I have to go on are the clocks in here, and for all I know, they tell me the time on Jupiter.

Wendy and Dad pop into my thoughts at odd intervals. I wonder where they are; what they're doing. I don't have to worry about Wendy – she's got a good head on her shoulders, and Dad is more than capable of keeping her safe. I just hope they aren't stupid enough to try to break into here to save me. Not that I really need saving, per se. I haven't been harmed. I haven't been starved, or tied up. Just confined to the bunker.

It didn't take me long to get used to the daily schedule in here. Right now, I have no responsibilities, so the lights, color-coded decals, and warning buzzers mean nothing to me. The culture is bewildering. I'm used to brassy accents, loud talkers, laughter, singing, and good-natured ribbing. Everything here is subdued, polite to a fault. Even the broadest of smiles show no teeth – it's as if their happiness means nothing; all that matters is restoring the United States government to its pre-war glory.

The people in here are as gray as the walls.

I start to think of what it would be like to live here. If I couldn't get out, I might as well try to be as happy as I can be. I look at Emily. She smiles back at me, shyly.

* * *

 _Charon_

We stand at the entrance to the Mall metro.

"I'm not going in there." Wendy's voice is clipped; panicked.

"It's the only way there."

"We'll go back to the Citadel then, the way they took us with the car."

I sigh. "Wendy, that would put us miles out of our way. This is quicker." I pull back the gate with a screech of tortured metal and step in. "Now come on." I grab her arm and drag her in after me, and she starts screaming bloody murder. "Shit!" I drop her arm and press my hands to my temples. Her screams were so shrill, it felt like someone was stabbing my brain from inside my ear.

She runs out, and into the sunlight, whimpering and breathing heavily. _Goddamit, we don't have time for this._ I do some math in my head. She's what…a hundred and twenty pounds? Probably less. Her pack must weigh at least seventy. With a rest or two, I could probably do it, no problem. Hopefully the Brotherhood cleared the ferals out of these goddamn tunnels, or I'll be in for a world of shit.

I follow her outside, drop my pack, and start to rummage through it. I extract our first aid kid, and find what I'm after. "Hey Wendy," I call to her. "Can you come over here for a second?"

"Sure." She strides confidently over to me and crouches. "What are you looking f – "

I hit her in the shoulder with one of our pre-measured doses of Med-X, and she stares at me in shock. She exclaims, "Charon, you didn't – "as I gently lower her to the ground.

 _Now the fun part._

I'll have to carry my shit, her shit, and her.

Fuckin' grand.

* * *

I have to stop every so often to check her Pip-Boy and make sure that we're going the right direction. It hasn't changed much down here in almost fifty years – apparently, they're focusing on above-ground first – but I don't want to risk getting lost. If she wakes up down here, she's gonna freak out, bad.

Luckily, it's largely empty – radroaches here and there, but those things can crawl into pretty much anywhere.

Anywhere we have to go above ground, I grab everything and book it. They said they cleared it out, but I've lived this long by not trusting anybody. _Well, almost. I did trust Mallie – to a point._

I find a little nook by Friendship Station, and set everything down, to wait for her to wake up. I didn't have a lot of time to fiddle with the dosage, so she'll probably be out for a while longer. I feel both lonely and content – lonely because I haven't been alone for as long as I can remember, and content because it's nice to have a little time without chatter. I crack open a bottle of irradiated water and take a swig, rubbing my aching leg muscles.

She starts to wake as the sun's setting.

"Oof, where am I?" She rubs her head as she sits up.

"Friendship Heights."

She points at me, angrily. "Oh, YOU'RE in trouble, buddy!"

"Do you wish to punish me?" I ask.

"I – what? Punish? Well, maybe. That wasn't cool." She squints at me, and crosses her arms over her chest.

I snort. "Well, I had to do something. It's the only way here."

"You didn't have to DRUG me!" she yells.

"What else could I have done? Drag you through the metro, screamin' your head off?" I ask. "Well, until you ordered me to put you down. Then we'd be back at square one." I light a cigarette.

"You could have talked to me. Persuaded me."

I laugh. "I tried! Besides, I ain't a psychiatrist. I ain't good at holdin' hands and talkin' people through things."

"Well…don't do that again. Drugging me without telling me first."

"As you command."

"Don't start to think you got away with it. I'm still really fuckin' pissed off at you."

"Has Virgil ever told you how cute you are when you're angry?"

She screams in frustration as I laugh maniacally.

* * *

We trudge west until we find a small house. It appears deserted, so I'm in favor of finding a place to pack it in. It's dark and getting a little too cold for my comfort. We go in carefully, me with shotgun at the ready, and Wendy with an Assault Rifle. We find a couple radroaches, but the place is otherwise largely intact. Messy, but it's four walls and a roof – for the wasteland, that's considered lucky. Plus, it doesn't look like it's been lived in recently.

"Wanna stop here for the night?"

"Is it getting too cold for you?" she asks.

"I am a bit stiff."

"All right, here it is. Let's barricade the door and eat dinner."

We tuck into some Salisbury steak and Instamash, splitting some Fancy Lads for dessert. She lights both our cigarettes, since she saw me struggle with the snack cake packaging earlier. "Gimme your hand," she says, holding out hers. I hold out my right hand to her, and she grasps it. "Holy shit, you're cold! Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Was there anything that you could have done about it?"

She frowns. "Yeah – I could've got you some warm clothes in Underworld."

"We need to save our caps. I'll cope."

"I'll decide what's important to spend our caps on," she replies, brusquely.

"Yes, Wendy."

"Let's go to bed."

* * *

 _Charon_

The sun's about to come up. I can see a hint of light on the horizon, and I light a cigarette. Wendy stirs, rolls over, and I glance briefly at her bare back and sigh. I was cold last night, and she…I clench my teeth. _I'll think about it later._

 _Guilt and grief go well together,_ I think. I stand, creep over to the window and look out, resting my hand on the sill. I'm not here. I'm in another room, a long time ago, far away.

With her.

* * *

 **Forty Years Ago**

 _Maleficent_

I tell him to use me. To do what he wants with me. I don't want comfort this time. I want to submit, to lose myself. I want to be his; for a little while. To take orders. To surrender.

He pushes me onto my hands and knees on the edge of the bed, and I bite into the pillow to muffle any noise I might make. Don't want the rest of the inn knowing what we're doing – we might get fired, and while we don't need the caps, I want to keep moving.

There is no foreplay – we don't have time for it, and I don't need it anyway. Just the thought of him taking me makes me wet. He dives in with enthusiasm, thrusting vigorously. I moan into the pillow, and tighten around him. His fingernails dig into me as he pulls me to meet each thrust of his hips.

He breaks away abruptly, with a heavy slap to my ass. I sigh, my insides throbbing. "I'm not done. Roll over." _He wants to look into my eyes again._ He likes to watch my face, see my expression while he's dominating me. It turns him on, and it gets my motor running, too.

He pushes me into the mattress, covers my mouth, and I lock my legs around his waist as he enters me, forcefully. I wrap my arms around him; feel the hard muscles in his back tense and relax. Our eyes lock, and I feel him shiver. _He's getting close._ He pulls my head to the side, and I can feel his hot breath on my neck, in my ear. He finds his favorite spot and bites down as his whole body stiffens, his grunts muffled in the flesh of my neck.

He takes his hand off my mouth, and we lie there, breathing hard. My hands explore his back as he brushes hair away from my eyes. He kisses me on the forehead, on the lips. "I have to get back to my room." I say. We get separate rooms – adjacent, if possible – to make it easier to arrange a rendezvous when we stay over in a town. It's easier for me to sneak into his room than it is for him to sneak into mine.

He rolls off me, careful not to crush my leg. "Not yet." He says, wrapping his arm around me, and reaches over to retrieve the cigarettes from the nightstand. He shakes out two, lights both, and hands me one. I take a long drag, exhale.

"Ever think of where you'd be if you hadn't met me?" I ask.

He squeezes my shoulders. "I thank my lucky stars every fuckin' day." He replies, dreamily.

"Yeah…you'd probably still be moldering away in that corner. I'd probably be dead. Shot by some dipshit slaver when I tried to take over Eulogy's operation."

"That was your plan?" he asks, with a smirk.

"Yep. Sidle up next to him and make sure he couldn't run his business without me. Once he let me get close enough, I could slit his throat in the middle of the night." Charon grunts. "It'd been easy to blame it on one of his slave whores." I add. He shakes his head. "But then you happened." He kisses the top of my head.

I sigh. "Lemme up. I gotta clean up and get outta here before someone notices I'm gone." I hop up, plant my cigarette in my mouth, clean up briefly with a washrag, and then start pulling my clothes on.

"I left some money on the dresser for you." He says, jokingly.

"Oh, really? Am I your 'kept woman' now?"

"Well, now that I make more money than you…" he smirks.

Shrugging, I say, "Well, you know what they say: you don't pay 'em to screw ya; ya pay 'em to leave." He buries his face in a pillow as his body convulses with laughter.

"See you on the trail tomorrow, Romeo."


	24. Hiking and Fighting

_Charon_

I think about what she said in Underworld – just let it be what it is.

I roll it around in my mind, trying to define it. I can admit that I love her, but it feels…gray. Passionless. Like the attachment I feel to my shotgun – intimate, yet distant at the same time. There's a tenderness there, but it's fleeting, and it feels strangely sterile.

Calling it a simple physical release isn't quite right. Saying that we do it for comfort or to feel another's touch isn't quite right, either. Neither is a desire for intimacy. I suppose it could be all these things. I don't think any of them are mutually exclusive. If Mallie and Virgil had suddenly appeared, both of us would drop whatever the Hell this is in half a heartbeat. It's not the real thing – just a pale ghost, a poor imitation of love, made worse because we've experienced real love; we know what it feels like, and we know this isn't it.

We're drowning our pain in a sea of excuses.

* * *

 _Wendy_

The shame.

Every time, we promise ourselves that it's the last time.

Every time, we've broken that promise.

But we have to stop. Every time I think about Virgil, I get a pain in my gut, a longing, a yearning. I know he's close. I want him so badly. I remember the first time we kissed; he was walking me home, holding my hand. The sun was setting – the sky was painted with pinks and yellows, and soft oranges. He stopped and pointed at the sunset, and then turned towards me, his lips touching mine hesitantly, chastely.

I pulled him closer, and our mouths opened instinctively, his nervous tongue flicking towards mine. We broke apart abruptly, stepped back from one another. He didn't say a word, just smiled, took my hand again and walked me home, turning and waving goodbye as I opened the door.

Tears fill my eyes as I think of home.

My brothers roughhousing in the yard. My dad smoking on the back porch, reading the town paper. My mom's gentle, knowing smile. The taste of her salty-sweet maize bread, cooked in a cast iron skillet. The warmth as we all sit in the den in the evening, digesting, talking, knitting, playing games.

* * *

It's cold in the capital, and wet. And dangerous.

We're following what's left of a river, and happen upon a nest of raiders in the early afternoon. I came so close to stepping on a mine that it made my blood run cold – I'm awfully careless with my limbs these days. "You better wise the fuck up, or you're gonna lose a foot, too," complains Charon. They don't see us, so we have the luxury of finding some good cover and planning out our assault.

"What I wouldn't give for a sniper rifle right now," he mumbles. "How many of 'em are there?"

I glance at the Pip-Boy. "Looks like five." We sit and think for a bit. "Raiders ain't too bright, are they?" I ask.

"Not the last time I checked."

"We can take a couple potshots at 'em. They probably have more mines out there. We can lure 'em right into their own mine field." He looks surprised – well, as surprised as I've ever seen him look.

"That's actually…a great idea."

I brace my assault rifle on a nook in the rock we're behind, and sight in on the nearest raider. I look over at him. "Ready?"

"When you are."

I squeeze the trigger slowly, evenly, and it hits its mark – square in the chest. "Nice shot," he says.

"Thanks," I say. "Now get ready. Here they come!" Four raiders come rushing at us from the dilapidated house, one carrying a lead pipe; the others surely have firearms. As I take aim, a mine explodes, taking one of the raider's legs with it. _Ouch! Two down, three to go._

I flip the selector switch on my assault rifle to full auto and spray, doing my best to aim. When it's jerking around like that, it looks intimidating, but you usually can't hit shit. One more drops, then I hear the roar of Charon's shotgun, three shots in short succession. "Good teamwork!" I give him a high-five. "Now let's see if they have anything good on 'em."

* * *

"Snack cakes and ammo. I guess it wasn't a total loss," I say, as I fight with the packaging of some of Fancy Lad's finest. Since I lost my hand, it's impossible to get anything open now without using my teeth. It's the truth – you don't appreciate what you've got until it's gone.

When I finally get the package open, I take a bite and look at my Pip-Boy. "So, this Satcom array," I say, pointing at the screen, "how far away is it? How long will it take us to get there?"

"Four or five days, if we know where we're going. For us, maybe a week."

"That might be a problem. I don't know if we have enough food to last that long." I say, shouldering my pack.

"There's probably trading posts further on. We can shoot something along the way, too. I'm pretty sure there's plenty of mirelurks, mole rats, dogs…"

"I'm not eating dog." I had a dog as a pet when I was a kid. Just the thought of eating a dog makes me feel sick. We start heading north, following the river again.

"It didn't bother you on the way out here," he says.

"You DIDN'T!" I yell.

"If I knew you had an objection to it, I'd have let you go hungry." I scowl at him. "Look, out here you gotta eat. Food is food. Beggars can't be choosers," He sighs. "People'll eat just about anything if they get hungry enough."

"How long have you gone without food?" I ask, curious.

He shrugs. "About four days." I gasp and shake my head slowly.

"I had better discipline back then. Was used to goin' hungry."

"That's horrible!"

He shrugs again. "Not too much I could've done about it."

I frown, deep in thought. "What did you mean when you said that people will eat just about anything?"

"I meant that they'd eat other people," He answers, voice monotone.

"Oh my God!" I'm suddenly terrified. I was afraid of mines, bullets, mutated insects, animals, raiders, slavers – now I have 'cannibals' to add to the list. "Charon, did _you_ ever – "

He reaches over and presses a rough finger against my mouth, quieting me. " _Don't_ ask that question unless you really want the answer." My eyebrows rise in surprise as he starts walking again. "How about we stop talking and start walking?" he tosses over his shoulder.

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

 _Charon_

We hike up the river until nightfall.

This area is practically crawling with packs of wild dogs – apparently, whatever thinned them out had left or died. I hadn't seen a yao guai yet, which made me nervous. Wonder what happened to 'em all.

It doesn't look like there's gonna be anywhere to hunker down in tonight. "Wendy – do you want to keep going, or sleep in shifts?" I hear her sigh – she hates sleeping out in the open; she has a hard time getting to sleep and staying to sleep, waking up at every little noise.

"I guess we have little choice but to stop. I don't know about you, but I'm tired." I find a nice alcove in an outcropping of rocks, and she throws down her bedroll.

"I'll take the first shift," I say. She doesn't protest.

Shortly after she curls up on the ground, she's asleep. I sit, staring at the stars.


	25. Bitter Tears

_Wendy_

After a few more days, we're both irritable. It's a blessing when we stumble across a small settlement – named Seneca, whatever that means – and a miracle when we find out it has a bar. I need a fuckin' drink, and I know he does, too.

The bar is down inside a metro station, which I initially refuse to enter. "Do you want a fuckin' beer or not?" he asks. We've been sniping at each other ever since we woke up. It's only a matter of time before one of us loses our temper and says something that we'd regret later. "Look, it's not even fuckin' dark down there." He's right. There's nothing scary about it, really.

"This used to be empty before. That sucker must be making his Ultra Jet somewhere else. Or he's fuckin' dead," Charon says. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He's prone to making comments about how much things have changed since the last time he's been out here. Since I can't relate, I just shut the fuck up and let him bitch.

It's a pretty sizable place – there's about a dozen people milling around inside, and I head to the bar and hop up on a stool. "A beer, please," I request when the bartender asks what I want. "And one for my friend here, too." The bartender glances at me, looks up at him, and slides both beers across the counter.

"Ten caps."

"Whoa, that's kinda pricey."

"Well, I gotta make up for people like you scarin' away all my customers."

"People like - ?" I ask, confused.

Charon groans, pinches his forehead. "Just give him the money, we'll drink 'em, and leave."

"No, I wanna know what he means."

"I'll explain it to you later."

"No, you'll sit there, and he'll explain it." Charon goes rigid and falls silent, staring straight in front of him. I smile broadly. "Now," I ask, in my sweetest country girl voice, "what did you mean when you said 'people like us'?"

Pointing directly at me, he says, "No, people like YOU," then he points at Charon, "screwin' things like that." My eyes widen and my mouth flies open in shock. "Once you're done, get lost. I'm losin' money." He stalks off, and starts to rearrange bottles at the other end of the bar. Charon is still staring straight in front of him, unmoving.

"I tried to warn you," he says, and takes a sip of his beer.

I say nothing. I gulp my beer down as fast as I can, and urge him to do the same. "Let's go." I throw the caps on the bar, and make a beeline towards the door. As we leave, I hear mutterings, whispers. I've never been called ugly names before, and tears spring to my eyes. We leave quickly, headed north into the wasteland.

* * *

 _Charon_

I try to make her listen. It isn't nearly as tolerant out here as it is out west. The culture shock must be, well, shocking. I knew it was coming. I braced for it. Even after forty-five years, it stings something awful. So many things have changed. Just…not this.

They call her names. ' _Whore.' 'Trash.'_ Of course, the ever-present ' _corpse fucker.'_ Wendy's not as strong as Mallie – she's not used to being called names. By the time we're out, she's almost running, tears streaming down her cheeks. I find myself thinking of what Mallie would have done in that situation. She probably would have broken the bottle over the bar and had a fine time rearranging the bartender's face. _God, I miss her._

That night we find a small shack, long abandoned. I hold her as she cries herself to sleep.

* * *

 **Four Years Ago**

 _Charon_

"Charon, we need to tell him about the contract."

She's standing naked at the window, staring into the blackness of a warm summer night. I'm sitting on the bed, smoking. "Mallie, he's only fifteen. He's not gonna understand."

"Charon, I don't have too many years left," She says, her silhouette touching a pane, as if she could draw life from the distant stars.

"Stop talking like that."

"It's true. People don't last long out here, hon. I'm already livin' on borrowed time." Her voice is thick, as if she's trying to hold back tears. "I…I just don't want to leave you without knowing that you'll be okay."

I don't like talking about this. Over the years, I've watched the wrinkles deepen on her face, and her hair turn gray. When we gave up guarding caravans, she put on some weight, got rounder, softer. She's still beautiful, but she doesn't see it. She won't listen to me. My girl is stubborn.

She sounds lost; scared.

"I feel so small when I look up at the sky." She murmurs. She's taken to rumination lately – she was always pretty active, distracted from these concerns. It pains me to see her struggling, plagued with doubts, regrets, the looming reality of her own mortality. "Come back to bed," I say, with outstretched arms. She climbs into them and onto my lap without protest, resting her head against my chest. I run my fingers through her hair.

I think only of her and the contract she holds. It may have faded into the background, but it's always there; omnipresent. I may be a slave to that piece of paper, but I'm free of concerns about my own death. It means nothing to me, my death – the only possibility that makes me anxious is that I will leave her behind to suffer in grief.

We are safe here, but I still carry my shotgun out of habit and clean it regularly. It's obvious to us both that she'll go first. I squeeze her tight and kiss the crown of her head as she sobs quietly into my chest.

There are some things that love cannot overcome.


	26. Losing Control

_Virgil_

"Maybe you should sit down."

Joseph and I were sitting in an office – his, I presume. He'd sat in the chair next to mine instead of the big one behind his desk. "We have some information that I thought you had a right to hear." I wait nervously, my heart beating faster. _What could he possibly tell me?_

"Your wife and the ghoul are in the area." I'm surprised.

"Really?" I smile.

He holds his hands up. "Don't get too excited."

"Why not?"

"We've heard…rumors," He fidgets. "From our confidential informants."

"Well? Rumors about what?"

"That they have been…intimate." I stare at the floor, eyes wide, unable to breathe. I feel like I've been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. "For now, they are just rumors. People see a male and a female together, and they jump to conclusions."

"I have to know." I whisper.

"Indeed. We will do our best to locate them and bring them in, so you can ask them yourself."

Hands clenched tightly in my lap, I nod slowly.

* * *

 _Wendy_

After starting a fire in the fireplace of an abandoned house, we sit, eating our dog meat and Instamash. I figured that he's right – beggars can't be choosers, and this dog definitely wasn't anything like my Max. It was mangy, hungry, and came at us with bared teeth and wild eyes.

It's stringy, gristly, and gamey as hell. But it's food.

Whenever we come to a settlement, I go in alone for supplies. Both of us are nervous about it, but he attracts too much attention, and it appears that our reputation precedes us. The last thing we need is another scene like the one at Seneca. It's bothering me. We hadn't _done_ anything in almost a week – we weren't sad or grieving anymore. We were angry. Angry at each other, angry at the wasteland, angry at the world.

Like I'd thought before – it was proximity; grief. There was a fondness there, but it wasn't love. Well, not romantic love, at least. "Do you think he'll know?"

"About what?"

I sigh in irritation. "Stop playing dumb. About us."

"He already knows. I'm sure the Enclave has informants everywhere."

"How can you be sure?"

"I am." His stony silences have become longer, colder. Over the past few days he's become distant, bedding down several feet from me rather than cuddling to soak up my warmth. He's taken to drinking irradiated water to keep him warm – it improves blood flow in ghouls or something, he says. The only one he knows that has any knowledge of or interest in ghoul physiology was Barrows, and they've never exactly been on the best of terms.

"Is something wrong?" I ask him.

"Yes."

"What?"

He turns his head away from me. "Everything."

Nothing more needed to be said. Yes, everything was wrong. I was supposed to have a hand, a husband, a home. He – well, I don't know what he could expect to have. Mal couldn't have been expected to live forever. No, nothing more needs to be said, but I can't shut up.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask.

"No." he spits, curtly.

"Well, too bad." My voice is hard, angry. I want to talk about something. About anything. He turns his head slowly and looks at me, impassively. I search for a question to ask him – something that we hadn't talked about before. "What did you do before you met Mal?"

"I was a bouncer." His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

"Where?"

"At the bar in Underworld." He pauses, then adds, "It was called the Ninth Circle, then."

"Like Dante's Inferno." His favorite book.

"Yes."

"And –"

"Do you want my fuckin' life story?" He asks, almost snarling at me.

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me for wanting to know something about you."

He doesn't reply. I light a cigarette and stare into the fire, which is gonna go out unless I toss something else on it. I decide to let it burn out. It's about time we went to sleep anyway. The silence lengthens and he lights a cigarette of his own. He doesn't move to throw anything on the fire either, which I take as a sign that he wants to hit the sack soon too.

He reaches over and digs a bottle of irradiated water out of his pack. He twists off the cap, and downs it in seconds, tossing the empty bottle into a dark corner of the room when he's finished. I scoot over to my bedroll and lay down, facing away from him. I can feel him staring at my back – he probably won't sleep for a while yet, it feels better for him to watch over me, shotgun on his lap. He's doing his job, his duty. It's what he was programmed to do.

* * *

 _Charon_

My soul is burning.

I want to kill, rend, hurt something. I want to let the Darkness inside me free.

I remember the look Mal had on her face when she watched me kill with my hands or a knife. There was fear in her eyes, excitement, and lust. It makes me angrier. I'm angry that I did not die first, or die with her. I'm angry that I couldn't go in her place. My face twists into an ugly grimace. Her pain was excruciating.

So is mine.

Instead of succumbing to the empty ache, widening the gaping hole that opened in my heart when she left, I clench my teeth and rage against it. I'm weary of grief. I'm tired of wallowing in my own pain and self-pity. I'm ashamed to be someone who would take comfort in a woman that he has no right to in the first place.

I'm angry because I am what I am.

* * *

 **About Forty-Five Years Ago**

 _Charon_

We're in the suite, and she's standing before me, naked and defiant. "If you do one thing for me, I'm yours." She points at her cheek. "Slap me."

I frown, hesitating. This is a conflict in my programming. I can't hurt her. Sure, I've bitten, pinched, and scratched her – all at her insistence – but slapping faces is a whole different ball game. "You won't hurt me," she says, "because I like it." Confused, I stand there, stock still. She starts to hurl insults at me – "Hey, big and ugly," she taunts, "if you ever wanna fuck this again, you'll do what I tell you." I take a step toward her, and she sneers. "Shuffler." She sees the muscle twitch in my face at the epithet. I can feel the rage blossom in my chest. _How can she call me that?_ She smiles, wickedly. "Make a move you rotten zomb-" WHACK! Before I can stop myself, I slap her cheek, hard. She yelps in surprise. She holds her hand to her face, shudders, and looks into my eyes, and her gaze is of pure passion, a perverse hunger deep within her rising to the surface, consuming her. Eagerly, she whispers, "Do it again."

Angry with her, I need little prompt. My palm connects solidly with her other cheek, her head jerking to the side. I grab the front of her shirt and toss her on the bed like a rag doll, as if she weighs nothing. Before she can rise, I shove her down into the mattress by her shoulders, hard. Growling, I slowly wrap my hand around her pale throat. I can feel her heart hammering in her chest, beating rapidly, like a bird. I lean down to her, inches from her face, and snarl, "Don't call me that."

She whimpers, and I can see the lust in her eyes, with a tinge of fear. If she didn't hold my contract, I could kill her by simply squeezing her slender neck. She knows it too, and it excites her. Her nostrils flare with each shallow, rapid breath and she licks her full lips, saliva glistening on them like morning dew. I can feel the heat radiating from her body; when she exhales, I can detect the sweet-sharp smell of whiskey on her breath. I relax my hand and stroke her neck with my thumb and she closes her eyes and shivers.

I slide my hand down her body, cup her breast and grasp a nipple between a thumb and forefinger. I roll it lazily for a moment, then squeeze and twist. She shouts and bucks underneath me, pain mingled with pleasure. "Calling me names isn't NICE, Mallie."

She sneers up at me. "But you're so easy to manipulate."

"Is that so?" I ask.

She laughs. "Yeah. It's fun, too." I scowl at her, caress her soft cheek, then draw my arm back and smack it, hard. WHACK! She groans loudly, delicate eyelids fluttering.

I rise from the bed. "Then I'll teach you to be nice." When I unbuckle my belt, her eyes fly open, wide, clear. She begins to scramble backwards on her heels and elbows in a parody of an escape attempt, and I snag one of her ankles, holding her fast as she fights against me. After a few moments, she stops and smiles. She knows that I'm too strong, too fast; it's pointless to resist my iron grip. I take her in – muscles taut, hair wild, eyes wide, cheeks red from the strikes of my coarse palm.

I release of her ankle and she lies there, silent, compliant. "Close your eyes." She obeys, body trembling, and I give her a moment to reconsider. She could stop it, at any time, and I always give her ample opportunity to do so. I still don't know why she'd want to do anything with me, especially this. But at moments like these, I don't ask, and I don't fucking care. I unbutton and slide my pants down a little, freeing my aching length to the cool air. I wrench her legs open wide and settle myself in between them. "Last chance to say you're sorry." She laughs haughtily, and I plunge inside her forcefully, angrily.

She shouts, scratches at my arms. I catch her hands, one after the other, and pin her wrists to either side. Her body shakes as I thrust into her aggressively, her soft breasts bouncing, teeth bared. We sound like animals, shouting, growling, grunting, fighting each other for dominance. I look into her eyes and see the fire in them, the perverse vitality of an unrepentant deviant; deep in those azure depths is the thrill of being owned, of submitting, of being dominated by another. I feel her broken soul reaching to mine, seizing it, and claiming it for her own. I bite down on the crook of her neck and she shrieks, stiffens, and tightens around me. I roar as a wave of pleasure overtakes me, my primal cries muffled by her supple flesh.

We lay, breathing heavily. I can feel her body beneath me, sinking into the mattress under our weight, chest heaving. I release her wrists, first the left, then the right. She doesn't move – she opens her eyes, gazes into mine, blinks lazily, and smiles, lips parted.

She gasps as I lift myself and slide out of her. "That'll teach you not to call me a fuckin' zombie," I toss a rag on her chest. "Mouthy bitch."

As I close the bathroom door, I hear her laughing.


	27. Prized Possessions

_Wendy_

When we find the Satcom array, we're greeted by four Brotherhood soldiers in full power armor. "We didn't expect to see you guys all the way out here." Charon stands an arms-length behind me, deferentially. He's been very quiet lately, and I can feel the anger radiating off of him in waves. It's a tightly controlled rage, but just beneath the surface. It scares me a little, even though I know that he can't hurt me, even if he wanted to.

"We weren't far, ma'am – Scribe Rothchild radioed, requested that we meet you, or at least keep an eye out for you. We'll help you any way we can," He replied, voice tinny through the speaker of his helmet.

"You haven't been waiting here for very long, have you?"

"Oh no, we diverted from our patrol, got here just yesterday."

"Did she tell you anything about what we were looking for?" I ask. I don't have any hope that he knows where the bunker – Raven Rock – is, but he may be able to point us in the right direction.

"All we know is that she came from the north, north-west. At least that's what I was told by Rothchild. She's the foremost expert on the Lyon's Pride – she's even named after Sarah Lyons. If she doesn't know where Raven Rock is, then no one in the Brotherhood does."

"Fuck." _I curse Mal and her self-absorption for the thousandth time._ I turn. "Any ideas, Charon?" I ask. I'm answered with a grunt and a shrug, par for the course for him for the past few days. I suppose we could stay the night, talk about it, toss around our options. "We're sleeping here tonight," I say, and he nods. "Stay out here and have a smoke or something. I'm tired of you always being up my ass."

* * *

 _Charon_

When she slips inside, I holster my shotgun, light a cigarette, then engage the Brotherhood guys in conversation. "So – I haven't seen a lot of Enclave out here. They used to be everywhere."

"How long has it been since you been out here?" he asks.

"'bout…forty-five years."

"Heh. That's a Hell of a long time." He stares off into the distance – or at least, I think he does. It takes an act of God for them to take off those fucking helmets. "The power dynamic's long changed out here. When we got the Purifier back, it crippled them. I wouldn't say they had no fight left, but they took off damn quick. Or at least, that's what I was told."

Interesting. Maybe I can pump some information out of him. "I'm sure they have informants running around."

"Undoubtedly."

"Do you know if there's an outpost out here anywhere – a place they monitor regularly?" _I have an idea, but it won't be pleasant. Strictly a last resort._

His head turns towards me. "May I ask why?"

"I need to know where it is if I'm gonna avoid it. I'm a bodyguard," I jerk my head towards the large dish. "I gotta know this shit if I'm gonna keep her safe." I inhale deeply, drawing the sweet nicotine-laced goodness deep into my lungs.

He shifts nervously, apparently deciding whether or not to tell me. "There's one directly west of here. Be careful." He looks at the rest of his team. "I suppose we should get back to our patrol."

"Take care."

He waves as they head northeast.

* * *

When I enter, she's already digging food out of her pack. "Were you able to get anything out of them?" she asks.

"Some vague info about the area. Nothing significant." I shrug.

"So – where do we go from here? We can't just wander around, hoping to stumble on it."

I shake my head. "No, we'd never find it. The door is likely hidden – we could probably come within feet of it and never know."

"Maybe we can capture an Enclave soldier. Get it out of him." she suggests.

"And just how are we gonna do that? They'd rather die than be captured. Even if we did get one, what're ya gonna do? Torture it out of him?"

She blanches. "No, I guess not." She looks up at me. "But you could."

I close my eyes, clench my teeth, and look away from her. I think about the Enclave officer that Mallie'd cut to ribbons to feed the Darkness inside of her. I could do it – but I didn't want to. Of course, if she ordered me to do it, I wouldn't have any other choice. I take a deep breath. "I'd rather not."

She tosses me a piece of mole rat jerky, something she traded for in one of the settlements we'd passed. It surprised me the first time I ate it. Even though mole rat is pretty gross on a good day, this stuff is not only edible, but mighty tasty.

"You're angry." She says.

I stop chewing. "Yes."

"At me?"

"At everything." Trust me – I'd do anything to not feel. Turn my heart to stone. Forget it all. I find myself wondering if love was even worth the pain. I want to hurt something. Make something feel on the outside like I feel on the inside. I breathe deeply for a while, until the rage subsides. "Is it worth it?" I mumble to myself.

"Is what worth it?" Wendy asks.

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking." I turn away from her.

"No, seriously. Is what worth it?"

"Love," I mumble.

"It's always worth it." I glance over at her, and she's looking at me with a faint smile, compassion in her eyes. "Always." She reaches over to me and takes my hand. She squeezes it tightly. "She'll always be with you."

Life is so much easier when you're alone. It's so much easier when you care about no one – just the contract. I start to rue the day that I admitted to myself that I loved her. That morning on the balcony, sun rising, warming her soft, alabaster skin. She was so beautiful, so hard. So strong and fragile at the same time. She needed me, and I needed her.

Wendy is right.

What did I tell Mallie? That even if I have nothing left, I still have my memories of her. No one can take them away from me. Those memories are the ones that keep me sane. They are the most precious things I have.

They are the only things I truly own.


	28. Last Resort

_Charon_

We've been wandering around the general area of the Satcom array for three days now. She's getting antsy, desperate. I make a decision – perhaps the only decision that I've made on my own, ever. I persuade her to turn west. I'm doing something that I don't ever do – I'm taking a huge gamble. I shouldn't do this, but it's our only option now.

It's time for the last resort.

* * *

 _Wendy_

We're crouched behind an outcropping, watching a small Enclave outpost. Charon says that the wasteland used to be thick with them forty years ago, but now they're few and far in between. He also says they used to put a device on a deathclaw's head that turned them into attack dogs, but I think he's just trying to scare me. Well…I hope he's trying to scare me. It looks like the Brotherhood is slowly taking over the DC area. I guess sometimes regime changes take a while.

We'd tried to track down the location of the bunker, and haven't met with much success, other than the general direction of north. He said that we should look west for some reason, and desiring a change of scenery, I acquiesced. We're out of options; any new strategy is welcome.

We watch the Enclave soldiers mill around their outpost, which consisted of what looked like little more than a series of metal plates set up as cover for an inevitable firefight. I could hear a generator running, so they must have a computer terminal set up somewhere. Nothing else could justify the energy expense. "What would you do to find him?" Charon asks, out of the blue.

"Anything." I say. He meets my eyes.

"How much do you love him?"

"More than life itself." His eyes turn glassy, distant.

He suddenly drops his pack and his shotgun, and puts his hands up in the air. "Don't shoot!"

"Charon, what the FUCK are you doing?"

* * *

 _Charon_

This is my plan – give ourselves up. We won't have to find it; they'll take us there. Take us to him.

She said that she would do anything to find him. Anything. With that admission, I'm confident that I didn't willfully disobey an order.

I mentally brace myself. I am under no illusions that I won't be tortured. This will hurt, a lot. Probably for a long time. Especially for me. They'll want to tear me up, test on me. It's a price that I'm willing to pay. For Wendy. For Mallie. For Virgil.

We'll find him.

* * *

I approach the power-armor clad soldiers, arms raised high. "My name is Charon. I was with Maleficent. Radio your superiors; they'll know who I am." After some initial confusion, Wendy and I both sit against a storage crate, hands bound behind our backs. Well, my hands anyway. They had to get creative with Wendy.

"Charon, why?" she asks.

"Because you love him." I reply.

"They'll hurt you. Me too." There's tears in her eyes. She's trembling, terrified. The only Enclave that she's ever met kidnapped her husband and threatened her life. She has good reason to be scared.

"They'll hurt me more." I turn my face into a mask of stone. I can't allow myself to betray any emotion. If I do, she might go from scared to hysterical. God only knows how the Enclave soldiers would deal with a situation like that.

She's crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Why? Why, Charon, why?"

I know it's a rhetorical question, that she doesn't expect me to give her an answer. But I answer her anyway. "It's a price I'm willing to pay."


	29. In the Belly of the Beast

_Wendy_

I can't believe he did this. If I knew what he was going to do, I would've stopped him. I don't know how we would've got in, but it sure as fuck wouldn't be this way. After the initial fear, I got angry at him. How dare he make a decision like this – and all on his own.

I take a moment, stunned. He made this decision all on his own. He made this decision himself, without being ordered. I had no idea that he was capable of such a thing. He didn't tell me about it, because he knew that I would reject it immediately. I lean against him and close my eyes. I know they're gonna split us up as soon as possible. It will no doubt be painful for him. Probably even physically painful. From what he's told me of the contract and his programming, he'll be compelled to protect me, to keep me from being taken from his side.

It is, without a doubt, one of the most intimate connections I've ever had with anyone.

I have the urge to hug him. I know I can't do it, and I know that even if I could, he probably wouldn't appreciate it, but I want to anyway. When they load us into the vertibird, we're across from each other. Even if we weren't forbidden to talk, we'd be unable to hear each other anyway. I look into his eyes, and he looks away. I can see him struggling. It might be imperceptible to everyone else, but I've been with him long enough to where I can see him fighting his feelings, calming himself, letting the programming take over.

* * *

 _Charon_

I forgot how loud it is in one of these goddamn things.

We're strapped in across from each other – why, I have no idea. It's not like we can talk or anything. We surrendered ourselves to them for fuck's sake. It makes no sense to do this. Maybe it's SOP, though. Standard Operating Procedure must be followed at all times, or the nearest officer would roast whoever ignored it, regardless of the reason. It's a career killer, that's for sure.

She looks into my eyes, and I look away.

I clear my mind; I make myself an empty vessel. Let the programming take control, so I don't have to feel. I don't want to think of what awaits us. It won't take long before we'll find out if I made an error in judgment.

I know I'm in beyond my depth, because I'm hoping beyond hope that I haven't fucked up.

* * *

As soon as we enter a cleverly hidden door in a cliff side, we're forcibly separated. We both fight against the soldiers. All they had to do was pick her up – she doesn't weigh much, and even panicked she didn't offer much resistance to them.

I bowled over two of them trying to get to her. They had to use shock sticks to incapacitate me. The pain was so intense that for a few fevered seconds, it expanded to encompass my whole existence. It took four of them to drag me into my cell and put me in restraints.

Mallie, I hope I did the right thing.

* * *

 _Wendy_

They split us up, almost immediately. I panic. What will they do to him? What will they do to me? Where are they taking us? Will I see Virgil?

It was as bad as I thought it would be, even worse. He knocked over a couple of them trying to get back to me. My terrified screams and his enraged bellows filled the hallways. _Oh Jesus, no!_ I saw them hit him with the shock sticks; he fell hard, twitching. "You motherFUCKERS!" I kicked and jerked against them. "Don't hurt him!" I screamed, over and over, even as they pulled me away, removed the ties on my arms, took away my Pip-Boy, and placed me into something they called a "restraining pod."

I screamed for him until I was hoarse, too tired to continue. I missed his presence, terribly. I hadn't been but feet away from him, for months. It was like…it was like losing a hand. For him, it could only be worse.

* * *

 _Virgil_

When they found them, they told me immediately. They let me watch the video feed when they brought them in. There's no mistaking Dad – he's unique, even among ghouls. But that woman – she couldn't be my Wendy. She has short hair! She's dirty, cussing up a storm, and I can swear that she has a metal claw where her hand should be, although from this angle, I can't be sure.

The scene is heart-rending to say the least. They fight when they're separated. They have to hit Dad with shock sticks and drag him down the hall. I'm so in shock that I don't know what to feel, what to do, who to talk to.

* * *

I stand in Joseph's office. "It's them, isn't it?"

"As far as we can tell. The ghoul just put his hands up and turned them both in." I don't believe it. Dad wouldn't be that stupid. He'd have to know that they'd take them in, separate them. He had to know the scene that unfolded before my eyes, even before it happened. Either she told him to do it – which I doubt – or he decided to do it on his own, which is surprising to say the least. I can think of only one reason, one thing that would make him do it: me.

"I want to see them. Both of them."

"Absolutely."

* * *

 _Wendy_

My head hurts, and my tongue is thick _. Fuck, I'm thirsty_. Slowly, the fog begins to clear. It must be driving Charon crazy to be separated from me. I hope he doesn't do anything stupid, like try to hurt someone, just to get to me. I feel like an idiot – I should have given him orders. I should have told him not to try to help me.

"Hi Wendy."

"Virgil?" I almost can't believe it.

"Yes."

"Oh, thank God, you're alive!" I can't help myself, I start crying.

"I couldn't even tell it was you, with your hair cut like that." He says, a note of disapproval in his voice. _Well, I did it out of necessity, not out of vanity._

"Oh, yeah – it's easier to take care of short hair with one hand."

"What happened to your hand?"

"Oh, that…it was an accident." I say, flippantly. It's been around two months since I lost it; I've long since accepted the realities of life without it. That's not to say that I don't miss it from time to time, but practical concerns trump everything out in the wasteland – even sentimentality for a lost hand.

He fidgets, then looks away from me. "Is it true?" he asks.

"Huh?"

He repeats his question, and it finally penetrates my fuzzy brain. "Is it true?" I suddenly realize that he's dressed in an Enclave officer uniform – or what looks like one. I can't tell the difference.

"Is what true?" I ask, although I already know what he's asking about. It could only be one thing.

"Did you sleep with him?" he asks, so low, it's almost a whisper. They'd told him. Of course – how could they not have? Gossip travels fast, even in the wasteland. It didn't take long for them to force the truth out of me. I remember a stern face, shock sticks.

Fuck it. He knows it already. "You know it's true." The wasteland's made me hard. Angry. Took my compassion. Maybe it's with my hand. I look into his eyes, see hurt and betrayal. "He'd tell you anything to protect me. You know he would." I pull ineffectively against the restraining pod. "It was my fault. All mine." I sob. "I went to him."

"I trusted you."

"I couldn't help it. I lost my hand, and…and I was so lonely." Tears clouded my vision, and start to run down my cheeks. He stares at me silently, his face a mask of disapproval, disgust. "I was thinking of you, every time, if it makes any difference." I sob.

"It doesn't." He turns on his heel, boots clicking on the hard floor. The door closes, with a series of metallic shrieks.

Trust is like a piece of paper – once the paper is crumpled up, it can't ever be perfect again.


	30. A Caged Animal

_Charon_

When they split us up, I struggled with my programming.

I need to see her, to know where she is. So I can protect her.

They drag me into a cell and wait for me to recover. When they take off the flimsy wrist restraints, one young officer turns his back carelessly. He should have known better. I slam him against the wall, hard. He slumps to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Another tries to punch me; I grab his arm, twist, and he falls, screaming.

They hit me with shock sticks again. The pain is instantaneous and brutal. I fall to the floor, stiff as a board, twitching, as they pummel me.

They'll never get close after this.

* * *

They've drugged me.

They've started on the chems first – things that won't destroy my – how'd they put it? "Bodily integrity." They want to see how much it takes to affect me. Not really much I can do about that – a chem won't respond to threats and violence.

They had to resort to physical restraints with me – nearly seven feet tall, I don't fit in their goofy restraining pods.

When they run out of the common ones, they start using their experimental concoctions. One feels like fire in my veins, burning me from the inside out. Another paralyzes the leg they put it in – glad they didn't use any more than they did.

Then there's another one. It makes me…hallucinate.

It's the sobbing I hear first. It's her. I'd know it anywhere. I know it's a hallucination, but I can't help myself. "Mallie?"

She sounds pitiful. I've never heard her this way, and it tears my heart up inside. "It's dark in here, Charon. It's dark and cold."

I pull against my restraints. She sounds so real. "Come here. Come to me; I'll warm you up." _Please, please_ …

"I can't. Oh, God. I'm so lonely. Why did you leave me?" she pleads.

I plead with her. "I didn't leave you, I – "

"You left me. For her." My heart wrenches. Why did I let her do it? Why was I so weak?

"No, no – never!" I pull against my restraints. "You're my world, Mallie! I'd never leave you!" _You're all I have!_

"Charon, I need you!"

I pull tighter, frantic. "I'm coming, Mallie. I'm coming!"

I barely register the men in the room, the white coats, and the dart in my chest.

Everything fades into blackness.

* * *

 _Wendy_

I allow myself to be put inside the restraining pod again.

I'm getting a "special visitor," whatever the fuck that means. Don't know who'd be interested in me here – other than Virgil – but I'm intrigued.

A brown-haired woman – about my age – enters the room and approaches the restraining pod. "Hello, Wendy. My name is Emily."

"And what the fuck do you want?" I reply, icily.

"Just to have a little conversation. About Virgil." She says.

"Go on." I lift my chin.

She paces the room as she talks. "You see, in the bunker, in the beginning, they married for love," _What the fuck does this shit have to do with anything?_ I have little interest in the history of this godforsaken place. "Later, the leaders developed a…breeding program. To enhance genetic diversity. Children were "matched" – sometimes, even before they were ever born. "

"What does this have to do with anything?" I ask, irritably.

"Virgil was my match. He was to be my husband." _Oh. Well…that makes me awfully inconvenient._ She continues. "We – the Enclave – don't consider unsanctioned marriages valid."

"I see."

"No…no, I don't think you do. Virgil is mine, Wendy. He was promised to me a long time ago." She sighs, tilts her head. "You know, I was excited when they found him. When I got the news that he was already married, I was devastated." There's a flash of anger in her eyes. "I was working on him, making good progress. He held my hand yesterday, if you can believe it. I wished that you would die out there. That you'd disappear, killed by a junkie, or a scorpion – whatever. It's easier to compete with a dead woman than a live one." She smirks. "But I think this outcome is much better." She points at my left arm. "You're broken. Beat up. Incomplete. You aren't the person he fell in love with."

"You don't know that." I snarl.

"Yes, I do. I also know about your…transgressions. You cheated on him – with one of those walking corpses." She smiled. "You're tainted. Damaged goods." I clench my teeth. "Not only that, this one raised him. You cheated on him…with family." She chuckles. "You're a freak, you know. Your genes are altered – generations of exposure to radiation…you're lucky your skin isn't peeling off like that thing in the other room."

My eyes narrow. "He has a name."

"I'm sorry?" she asks.

"He isn't a 'thing.' His name is Charon." I spit out.

"Defending him, even now. Do you love him, Wendy?" she asks, a haughty smile on her face.

"He was all I had out there." I answer, weakly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" She stops pacing, stares into my eyes, like a predator would stare in the eyes of its prey. "The scientists will tear him up, you know. Pull him apart, to see what makes him tick." I take a deep breath. Tears obscure my vision, roll down my cheeks.

"You can't bear to see him in pain, can you?" She smiles, wickedly. "Everyone has a weakness, Wendy. Something; someone that can be used to break them." She pauses. "He's your weakness, Wendy. We'll break you."

* * *

 _Charon_

"Hi Charon."

I close my eyes and shake my head, growling in frustration. My head's fuzzy as hell. "Fuck these hallucinations! Go away!"

"I'm not a hallucination."

I look up, look at him – and see a handsome young man in a military uniform. He's real. He's here. We found him. I did it! I smile. "You're awful hard to find, Virgil."

"Maybe I didn't want to be found." He spits, bitterly.

"What – what do you mean?" _Here it comes._

"How could you? My wife! Your son's wife! " _My shame, bared._

I will my face into a mask of stone. "It was my fault. All mine."

"Really? She told me that it was her fault. That she came to you." He paced, and then said, thoughtfully, "She said she was thinking of me every time." I stare at him. "I suppose you were thinking of mom. In the dark, one woman could feel like any other." I close my eyes, clench my teeth. _No one can replace my Mallie._ "Grief isn't an excuse, Charon." His use of my name sears me like a hot brand. _He's trying to take a step back, distance himself from me._ "Did you think I wouldn't find out? That you fucked her right under my nose? The whole wasteland knows!" His face is a mask of pain.

I try to explain it to him. "You don't understand. She'd just lost her hand, and…"

"And what? She tripped, fell on your dick?" He yells, viciously.

I hang my head. "I am sorry."

"You're sorry? Is that supposed to make it all better? Make me forgive you?" I've known him so long that I can feel the pain in his voice. The rawness. The anger. I know – I've taken something that I had no right to in the first place. Something precious. Something that belonged to him, and him alone.

I shrugged, as much as the restraints would allow. "I didn't expect that it would."

He shook his head. "Virgil…we needed each other." I offer, weakly. It's the truth, but I know he won't like it.

This seems to make him angrier. His nostrils flare. He's quiet for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. "What happened to her hand? You were supposed to take care of her."

"She pushed me away from a shotgun blast. It was…point blank. Gone." _Goddammit Virgil, I got enough shit from Barrows, I don't need it from you_. I think of the panic that I felt, the tourniquet, the frantic run to Wellville, to Bones, to safety. For a moment, I can feel her weight on my shoulder, the panic that I might lose her, lose him, lose everything.

He shakes his head in disgust. "Sloppy."

Pride wounded, I yank on my restraints. "I told her not to protect me! That if anyone was gonna take bullets, it was gonna be me. She didn't fuckin' listen!"

He stood, calm. "She's a woman, Charon." He said. "Women love their men, they protect them. Mom would've taken a bullet for you."

"SHE DID!" I snarl.

"Then you should've known better." I can't…

He turns, and walks stiffly out of the room. The door closes.


	31. A Glimmer of Hope

_Virgil_

I bump into a maintenance worker in the hall, and he drops his clipboard. We both bend down to pick it up, and as we rise, he hands me a holotape. "You dropped this." He said, and moved away, briskly, before I could respond. "Uh…thanks." _I've got to find a player._

I finally find one in the library. Luckily, it's in an out-of-the-way corner.

 _Virgil, we are the Underground. There are some of us in the bunker who don't believe that everyone outside is tainted, and that killing them is wrong. We know you're angry right now, but there's a conversation you should listen to. It was recorded late last night. It's on the end of this holotape. Make no mistake – the Enclave will kill your wife and the ghoul. We have a plan to save them, but we'll need your help._

 _Destroy this after you listen to it. We'll contact you with instructions when we're ready._

* * *

Oh my God.

The Emily that I know is meek, shy – not confident, angry, cruel. Apparently, I don't really know her. They've been lying to me this whole time. I might be Joseph's son, but I don't belong here. I know I can't go home, but I sure as hell ain't gonna stay here.

Home…I think about how it was. How it never will be again. I still care about Wendy, but I don't know if I can ever trust her again. Can love overcome this kind of betrayal? Do I even still love her? When they did it – they both are responsible, I'm tired of them both trying to take all the blame – they destroyed whatever trust I had in either of them. It would have been easier had it only been once – but they'd done it over and over again. I think of the excuses. Loneliness. Sadness. Grief. Every time I think about it, it's like a knife turning in my gut. I can't think about it for very long, or I get so angry that it's hard to think at all.

I got to get them both out of here. If I wait too much longer, they're gonna kill them. Dad and Wendy are subhuman to these people – their time is running out. There's only so long I can throw my heritage around before they get tired of it.

I'll have to wait until the Underground contacts me – it can't take too much longer. They want Dad and Wendy to escape as bad as I want them to.

* * *

 _Wendy_

I'm led from my cell to another. I don't even look at the guard – they don't even think of me as human anyway, so why bother? He opens the door, and shoves me in.

 _I must be hallucinating._ "Charon?"

"Wendy?" a small smile lifts the corners of his lips as he opens his arms wide.

I rushed over to him and hugged him – and he grunted in pain. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

"A few cracked ribs. A broken finger. They popped my ankle a good one, too. To keep me from moving too fast." I want to cry. He smiles at me, faintly. "Hey, you should see the other guys."

"Why do they have to torture you like this?" I want to cry. He doesn't deserve to suffer, least of all for me.

"They aren't torturing me – they're torturing you. They're just hurting me." _He's right. Seeing his suffering hurts so much more than if they'd bruised me or broke my bones._ "Don't worry. They'll give me some radiation later, to see how fast I heal. It's what they did last time." I cringe. _How many times have they done this to him?_ He limps to the bed, little more than a metal frame bolted to the wall, motioning for me to sit next to him.

"I told him it was my fault." He says. I knew he'd say that.

I perch on the edge of the bed and stare at the floor in front of me. "It wasn't. You know that. He doesn't believe you. He knows you'd do anything; _say anything_ , to protect me." We sit silent for a minute. "I came to you, Charon. I took advantage of your grief. I was weak." I hate having to relive this memory. "Remember? You said her name."

He covers his face with his hands. "Don't take any more blame for me. That's an order." He shakes his head from side to side. I get the feeling that if he could cry, he would. He wants to protect me. This order forbids it.

He collects himself, and then looks down at the floor. "You said anything." He blurts out.

"What?" I frown.

"When I asked you what you'd do to find him, before I turned us in. You said anything."

I gasp. "Jesus, Charon, I didn't think it would be like this."

"You said that you loved him more than life itself." He says. _I do. That was definitely not a lie._

I smile at him, sadly. "I love you, too." I can't help but admit it. It's true. After three months in the wasteland, not straying more than ten yards from one another at any given time, it's impossible not to be attached to him.

"I know, Wendy. But you don't love me like you love him."

I nod. No matter how hard we try, I'd never be able to recapture that magic with him. He'd never find it with me. Our love – or whatever it was – was love born of grief. Out of suffering. "That's what you said, too. When Mal died. That you loved her more than life itself."

"I still do. But I love you, too." _Of course he does._

I smile, sadly. "I know. But not like you love her." I know better than to compete with his love for Mal. It was long, intense, both hard and gentle at the same time. They went through so much, too much. I squeeze his hand, and he winces. "Sorry."

The door opens with a series of metallic clanks, and the guard returns. "Time to go back to your cell," He says.

Charon clutches me protectively, and growls at him. "Stop it." I tell him. "They would just hurt you, and take me anyway." He loosens his grip; he has no choice, really.

Before the door closes, I say, "I'll come back for you." The look on his face almost tears my heart in two.

* * *

 _Charon_

I have a splitting fuckin' headache. I start to wonder what shit they're gonna pump into me next. I'm almost starting to wish that they'd start cutting me up. That's something I can understand. Fucking with my brain by pumping chemicals into it is infuriating.

The door clanks open, and a man in an officer's uniform enters. I shake my head and squint my eyes. I could swear…"Virgil?"

He smirks. "No. Close, though. I'm his father."

I laugh. "Well…this is awkward."

There's a brief pause, as he collects his thoughts. "Thank you for raising my son. He is…exceptional." I'll admit – I'm surprised by his admission. I know what the Enclave thinks of ghouls. I search for words, but can find none.

"Those men you injured – I just saw them in the infirmary. One's arm is broken in two places. The other has broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a concussion. They said it happened in a-" he snaps his fingers, "-split second. Something tells me they got off lucky." I offer only a smug smile in reply.

"You're an asset of The Institute, aren't you?" He asks. "Your strength, your training – it's impressive. I watched it on the video. I've only seen anything like it in two places –the Commonwealth, and the Enclave. I know you're not one of ours."

I frown in disgust. "Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you."

"As I thought." He starts toward the door, then stops and sighs. "I want you to know…what we're doing, it's not personal. We just want to know how much you can take. What you…are." I snarl at him, fight against my restraints.

What am I?

I am a living weapon. A thing of war.

I am blood, fire, and steel.

 _I am rage._

* * *

 ** _Note:_** "Blood, fire, and steel" is part of a quote from Ayn Rand's 'We the Living.' Expressing his displeasure over the communist regime, Admiral Timoshenko says to Morozov: "We set fire under a kettle and we brewed and stirred and mixed blood and fire and steel." He expected that they would get men like Charon from the brew - but that didn't come to pass.


	32. Rain Dance

_Virgil_

I know they're being tortured, but there's not much I can do to help them. If I push too hard, I might very well wind up in a cell myself.

I review my options – abandon my old life, let them both die; work to free them and stay; leave with them when they go, if we get that far. The first one really isn't a choice. I'm not that cruel. If I do stay, I'm guaranteed an officer position – not only due to my family legacy, but the merit of my skills. I could accomplish more here than in the wasteland, more than likely – but I don't share their love for the ideals of a dead government. I mean – it obviously didn't work the first time. What makes them think that trying it a second time is going to change anything?

Besides, I don't fit in here. I doubt I ever will.

I find myself thinking of what life would have been like, had my mother – Jeannette– not left the bunker. No one had told me the reason why she left – just that she was mentally disturbed, which may or may not be true. Joseph had the photo of her delivered to my quarters, as promised. It shows us three as a family, taken shortly after I was born. She was a slender, brown-haired woman – very pretty. Her eyes were deep brown – so deep, one could get lost in them, even from a photo. But the eyes also had a tinge of sadness in them, which deepened the mystery of our flight even more.

Unsurprisingly, I feel little connection to her. No emotions surface when I look at her photo, other than curiosity. I open the folder on the desk, and take out a picture of Mom, taken when she was about my age, probably in the vault. Her smile is genuine, but her blue eyes are piercing, unwavering, hard. She never looked at me with those eyes, I realize – she depended on Dad to discipline me, because I could pull her heart strings so easily. I was the only one that could boast that ability.

I understand why Dad loves her so much. She had an innate strength, a personality larger than life. She had commanding presence – the thing that Dad needs and deserves so much. There was anger behind those eyes, and pain – but it was well hidden. She was a selfish woman sometimes; what was hers was hers, whether it was a Brahmin, a bodyguard, or a memory.

I think back to what Dad said about memories – that my memories are mine, they belong to me. Or something like that. He probably guarded his memories of Mom as fiercely as she guarded hers of him. It was so much more than just the contract. They weren't _bound_ together, they _belonged_ to one another.

* * *

 **Eleven Years Ago**

 _Maleficent_

Virgil hears the storm coming from miles away – the ears of youth are sensitive, and I take a brief moment to bemoan my age. Fifty-three. Much too old to have an eight-year-old son, but I manage to keep up just fine. Even though I've put on a little weight, I've managed to keep myself fit.

The rain isn't as bad here as it was in the Capital – well, not as irradiated, I mean. But Charon still likes the feel of it. This doesn't happen often out here; it's a rare treat for him. It's a rare treat for me, too – I like to sit on the porch and watch him. I look down, and ruffle Virgil's hair, and get an impish smile in return. _He likes to watch it, too._

Charon stands in the middle of the downpour, barefoot, soaked to the bone. He raises his arms to the sky, rotating them left, right, left. He lifts his face, opens his mouth. Virgil giggles, and Charon smiles back at him. He closes his eyes and turns away from us, towards the hills.

"Stay here." I whisper. I descend the steps and use the noise of the rain as a screen to sneak up on him. I wrap my arms around his waist in a tight hug, making him jump in surprise. I laugh. "If I was a snake, I'd have bit ya!"

"What're you doin' out here?" he turns around to face me. Before I can answer, he pulls me into a hug and twirls me around. I kick and laugh, like I'm half my age. When he stops twirling, he sets me down, and draws me into a long, passionate kiss.

"EWWWW!" Virgil yells from the porch. "That's GROSS!"

"You won't think it's gross when Wendy kisses you!" Charon teases. We laugh as we listen to Virgil making gagging noises.

"Go inside." He scolds. "We don't have a lot of Rad-Away as it is."

"Make me." I smirk, defiantly.

He picks me up and throws me across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then drops me off on the porch. He meets my eyes for a moment. If Virgil wasn't here, who knows what compromising position we'd be in right now. I love how he is after a good rain – the radiation invigorates him; makes him horny. We'll send Virgil away to the Davis' tonight – he likes to spend time with Wendy, and I never let a good rainstorm go to waste.

* * *

I walk Virgil to the Davis' and they're delighted to take him in for the night. If there is a God, then I hope he, she, or it blesses them. They've saved our hides out here more times than I can count, helped us avert countless disasters. The older girl was our housekeeper when she was younger, and even though she was only about ten years old, I learned how to cook and clean from her. Wendy is one of nine children, somewhere in the middle, but she's the thinnest; the frailest. It seems like Deanna is always either pregnant, or got a baby on her hip.

* * *

He attacks me as soon as I walk in the front door, carrying me to the bedroom tucked under one of his heavily muscled arms, me laughing the whole way. "You'd think that _you_ owned _me._ " I joked, when he put me down.

He smirks. "Not yet." He pauses. "Do you want me to soften you up a little?" he asks. I consider it. It's been a while, and I've had him start to use more restraint lately – my body's not what it used to be. Better safe than sorry. The last thing we need is for me to get hurt all the way out here, with only a first aid kit. I want it so, so bad, though. " _Please_."

When I give him the command, his palm connects with my cheek with a satisfying slap and a burst of warm pain. "Oh! Do it again." WHACK! My other cheek stings deliciously, and I feel my nether regions quiver in anticipation. He lowers me down to the bed, following me.

His hands grope my body aggressively, desperately. He fumbles with my trouser buttons, tears my pants off, taking my modest cotton underwear with them. He lies next to me, rubs my already swollen clit. I moan softly, and he whispers into my ear, "I want you…to be loud." He plunges a coarse finger inside of me, pumping vigorously, and I moan loudly and push my hips to meet him. I tighten around his finger and he grunts into my ear, his hot breath brushing my hair, tickling my neck delightfully. He slows, stops, then leaps up, fighting my shirt off of me. My brassiere – a plain cotton affair made by a seamstress in town – becomes a source of frustration for him. Bras aren't very common in the wasteland, and I hadn't started wearing one again until recently. Once you get to a certain age, gravity becomes more of a problem than it used to be. "Hooks – in the back." I whisper. I gently sit up, turn with my back to him, and allow him to fiddle with it until he starts growling. "Don't break it." I snake my arms behind my back, push his hands away, grip the band and pull gently, unhooking it effortlessly. I slide it off, and toss it on the floor. His hungry hands explore my naked body, cupping my breasts as he nips my soft neck.

He presses me to my hands and knees on the edge of the bed, and gives my ass cheek a heavy slap. "Stay there." I hear the heavy thump of his boots as they're tossed to the floor, the clink of his belt, the rustle of clothing as his peels his shirt over his head. He waits, forcing me sit there, stewing in anticipation. He knows this position is my favorite; I rue the day I told him, because now he likes to tease me with it.

He rubs my ass with both of his rough hands, squeezing, kneading. I whimper with need, my insides throbbing, desperate to feel him inside me. His hips jerk forward, thrusting into me forcefully, painfully. My piercing cry is deafening in the small bedroom, and he speeds up, smacking me hard. I grip the sheets, and the raw, unbridled sounds from behind me elicit moans of pure pleasure; his fingernails rake my naked back, and I scream, squeezing him tightly as stars blossom behind my eyes. He stiffens and shouts with a last mighty thrust, pulling my hips to meet his.

Both of us pause, sweating, breathing heavily.

I exhale forcefully, and then look over my shoulder at him. "Let's do that again."


	33. Anticipation

_Virgil_

 _At ten, there will be a shift change. The lights will go out, then the emergency lights will come on. This disables the restraining pods, so you can rescue your wife. We don't know how long we can disable the lights, so get to your wife first._

 _The ghoul may be trickier – he's in physical restraints. Figure those out as quick as you can._

 _Your weapons and supplies will be in a trunk in an alcove near the cells. Get to them as soon as you can. You'll likely need them._

 _An operative will light up the blue beacons along the path to the door. When you reach the door, press the button on the intercom and identify yourself, and our operative will unlock the door for you._

 _Don't fail. If one of you falls, keep going. When you get outside, run and don't look back. People have put their lives on the line for you tonight. Don't let them risk everything for nothing._

* * *

 _Charon_

With a scalpel, a man in a white lab coat makes three incisions on my arm, of varying depth. _This guy's better than the last one,_ I think. This one uses anesthesia. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that he was treating me like a person.

Before the doctor leaves, he meets my eyes. A fleeting glance, but one filled with remorse. An apology with no words. I suppose there's compassion in the Enclave after all.

After he leaves, a man in a radiation suit sets a small, glowing container on the nearby table. Carefully, he removes the top, sticks in a long-handled cotton swab, and removes a small portion. I can see him talking inside his suit; probably recording this research for later review. He slathers it on the smallest wound, and waits for it to close up. He repeats the process with the other two, talking into his suit the whole time. He carefully handles the radioactive material, screwing the lid down on top of the container, and placing the swab in a container on his belt.

When he turns to leave, I snarl at him, and he jumps. Serves him right for treating me like a specimen in a jar.

I suppose he's only following orders, though. It'd probably be just a bit hypocritical of me to judge him for that. Then again – I'm incapable of disobeying an order. That one has a choice.

I pull against my restraints. They're little more than chains attached to heavy-duty recessed hooks in the wall – I can tell from the hastily installed bed that this room was originally designed to hold an animal, not a man.

They must think that I'm little more than an animal – after all, that's what they called us out in the wasteland, years ago. Unclean. Abomination. Mutation. Freak. I can't argue much with them on that score – but it's insulting for them to treat me as if I can't think; as if I'm little more than a mindless zombie. All the tests have been physical – they have little interest in what I think, or even if I can think to begin with.

The big man – Virgil's father – isn't stupid, though. He knows I think, he knows that I'm more than an animal. I know that he wants to take me apart; see what makes me tick. So he can have his scientists make more people like me, no doubt.

Let's hope that never happens. I shudder at the thought.

I hope they're treating Wendy better, although I know enough about the Enclave to know that they probably don't consider her much more human than I am. Generations of consistent radiation exposure, on the outside. To them, if you didn't come from a bunker or a vault, you're not worthy of life, not "pure."

We better get out of here soon, because it's only a matter of time before they start to make bigger slices, or start taking chunks outta me.

* * *

 _Wendy_

I heard him yelling down the hall earlier. They're hurting him, and I can't do anything to help him. Dimly, I wonder why Virgil doesn't do anything to help us. I guess even if he's Enclave "royalty," he can't get away with everything.

I don't know whether it's night or day. I don't know how long we've been here, or for what purpose they're keeping us. Well, I know that there's little they can find out from me – I'm just like every irradiated, mutated Tom, Dick, and Harry in the wasteland. Charon, however…he could probably provide a wealth of information about ghoul physiology, and he might have some military value, too. Could you imagine that? An army of Charons, all following orders without question, with no thought whatsoever to their own safety…

For everyone's sake, I hope that doesn't happen.

* * *

 _Virgil_

It's almost time.

I'm nervous, scared of what might happen. I could lose one or both of them in this attempt. I could die myself. _Is this really worth it?_

It has to be. I can only imagine what the scientists are doing to Dad, or what they have planned for him. It can't be anything pleasant, and it will no doubt be excruciatingly painful. I ask myself, what would Mom do?

Mom would probably slit throats and bust heads until she found him. Or she would die trying. I catch myself wondering if she was a little crazy, or if I'm way too cautious. I pick up the photo of her – the vault photo – and look at it again. Her sly smile and devious eyes stare back at me, across the years. I realize that I have no photo of Dad – he, understandably, didn't care for having his picture taken. "I wanna _live_ the moment, not take a damn picture of it," he'd say. But I also thought that, from time to time, he was ashamed of the way he looked.

Surely, she had a photo of him somewhere. When we go back home, I'll have to dig around and see if I can find one.

I remember the time when Mom watched as he set sarsaparilla bottles up on a fence for target practice. He barked orders at me, arms crossed, and Mom stalked up to him, squeezed his arm, and scowled at him. "He's not a soldier, Charon, he's a seven-year-old boy!"

He shook her off his arm, irritated. "He's gotta learn somehow. Goin' easy on him ain't gonna do him any good."

"But –" she starts.

He snaps at her, "Stop motherin' 'im."

She paused thoughtfully, then nodded and returned to her spot and resumed watching, cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth. I think that's how I'll choose to remember her – a mass of dark hair, graying at the temples, crow's feet at the corners of her dancing blue eyes. She's smiling her half-smile, the ubiquitous cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Dad coming behind her, hugging her tightly, face buried in her dark, wild mane. He hugged her as if she'd fly away if he didn't hang on tight enough. They loved each other so much.

"Virgil, what are you doing?"

I didn't even hear the door open. Emily is standing there, staring at me strangely. "Oh, just thinking. About growing up. About Mom and Dad." She peeks at the photo I'm holding in my hand.

"Is that her?"

"Yeah – it was taken when she was about my age. She grew up in a vault." _But, of course, you already know that._ I set the photo back down on the desk. I'll have to make sure to grab it when the lights go out.

I glance at the clock – fifty after nine. I gotta get her outta here before everything starts. She won't be happy when I try to leave, and there's no doubt in my mind that she'll try to stop me. I was promised to her, she said – and she's been trying to win me over ever since I got here. Shy smiles, brushing her hand against mine, holding my hand, a chaste peck on my cheek last night after she said good night. She's done everything she can to present herself as the sweet, shy, girl-next-door, but I know who she really is: assertive, confident, and cruel.

I rub my face and try my best to fake a yawn. "I think I'll hit the sack a little early tonight, Emily."

"Are you sure? We can go down to the rec room and watch a movie, have some popcorn." She smiles sweetly. _Yeah, you'd really like that, wouldn't you? The better to put the moves on me._

"Sorry. I'm pretty tired. I wouldn't be that much fun."

"All right then – suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where my room is."

"Good night, Emily."

She pecks me on the cheek and smiles. "Good night, Virgil."


	34. Come With Me

_Wendy_

I'm dozing off when everything goes black, I slump forward, and a piercing alarm starts to sound. _What the-?_ I'm still trying to gather my bearings when emergency lights recessed along the baseboards flicker on, and the door opens, slower than usual.

"Come on, we're getting the hell out of here." It's Virgil, dressed in some kind of funky jumpsuit.

He helps me out of the pod and hands me my prosthetic, the Pip-Boy, and my harness. "Put these on, quick. We gotta get Charon before the lights come back on." I slide on the Pip-Boy, then my rubber-metal hand, tighten the harness straps, then buckle it around my chest, quickly.

"Lead the way."

* * *

He forces the door open, using a hidden mechanism. "For emergencies," he explains, briefly. "Dad, are you okay? Please tell me you're in one piece, and not drugged to the gills."

"I'm good."

"Wendy, I need light." I shine the light on the Pip-Boy as he picks the heavy-duty locks on Charon's manacles.

"Jesus. They must think you're an animal. Kept you tied up like one."

He sighs and shrugs, chains clinking softly. A _clack –_ "One down, one to go."

"Charon, what did they do to you?"

"Nothing that won't heal. Don't worry about me," he answers.

"Hey, I'm the one giving orders around here."

He smirks. _Clack!_ "All right gang, let's get the hell outta Dodge." Virgil says, as Charon rubs his wrists. They must ache horribly. Metal chains. What is this – the Middle Ages?

"Our stuff is down this way. Double time!"

* * *

 _Charon_

We're putting on our packs and situating our gear when a shrill voice rings out over the alarms. "Virgil! Where are you going?!" _Uh oh. Drama time._

A thin young woman with brown hair stalks down the hallway towards us, and I grip my shotgun tighter. Virgil lays a hand on my wrist, and I calm, just a little. "Emily, go back to your room. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I waited for you SO LONG, Virgil. I tried to be what you wanted," she whines.

"But I don't want you, Emily. I don't want the Enclave."

"We don't have time for this," I mutter. "Virgil, get rid of her. We don't have much time."

"Get RID OF ME?" she yells. She points at my chest. "NO! I'm not going anywhere, and I'll be GOD DAMNED if some rotten shuffler is gonna order me around!" _There's fire in that one._

I step back as Virgil pushes her away from me. "Go, Emily. I'm leaving. There's nothing you can say to make me stay."

Her face twists in a mask of hate and disgust. "So that's it? You're choosing this CORPSE-FUCKING WHORE OVER ME?" She grabs at Wendy's shirt, and in an instant, Wendy is on top of her, fist flying. She holds her down with her left arm, grabs a handful of brown hair with her right, and starts slamming Emily's head against the floor. I have a brief moment of déjà vu as I yank her off of the woman. She lands a final vicious kick right in the ankle, causing Emily to shriek shrilly.

Virgil is glued to one spot, eyes wide. I nudge him in the shoulder. "Put on my pack. Let's go." He blinks at me. "She'll be fine. Let's go." He then bursts into activity, shouldering the pack in one smooth, practiced motion – _that's my boy_ – and leads us down the hallway, as fast as he can.

"Follow the blue beacons!" he yells over the din.

We twist and turn, a maze of blinking lights and metal walls, when all the sudden, the sirens stop. The lights don't come back on, but we can hear a mouse fart in here. "That's our cue to get our shit together. I hope you know what you're doing." I say. Apparently, his guardian angels took us the back way around - we haven't seen a soul, other than Emily. Either that, or they're occupied with more pressing matters - not like I give a shit, anyway. _  
_

"Follow me. We should be almost there." He hits the emergency release on another door, and reveals a small room with an empty guard desk. There's an intercom on the wall, but Virgil makes no move towards it.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Asks a middle-aged man in full military uniform.

"I'm leaving, Joseph."

"Over my dead body." I raise my shotgun to my shoulder. _More than happy to oblige._

* * *

 _Virgil_

I'm stunned to see Joseph there. "Put your plasma pistol on the desk, Joseph. He will shoot you," I say, indicating Charon.

"With pleasure." Charon sneers.

Joseph removes the pistol from its holster and lays it on the desk. "I'm not gonna let you leave here again."

"Yes, you are."

Fast as lightning, he pulls a large pistol and fires at Charon, at point-blank range. Charon fires shortly after, turning Joseph's chest into a bloody mess.

"Are you hit?"


	35. Hush Now

_Charon_

 _…had a .44 hidden in his jacket._

 _I took that bullet for you, big guy._

Looks like I finally got what's coming to me. Wendy's screaming, clutching at me. I reach down and feel the hole in my gut. I know…it's too big. Too much gone. Stimpaks can't heal everything. I hit myself with one anyway to stem the flow of blood – I can't die in here. I can't let them keep me; I can't let them study me, to make more tortured slaves in my image.

As Virgil gets the door open, I can hear Joseph gurgling, his heels drumming against the floor, grunts of pain as he fights for life. _That must hurt like a sonofabitch. Serves him right._ As the door clanks open, Joseph quiets. I grip Virgil's arm and lean into him. "Let's go. Now."

We run as fast as we can, I'm stumbling more than running. It's a miracle that there's no one out here – they must be distracted by the power outage. We head south, and find a ravine. _Convenient._ "I need a rest." Virgil looks at me with sad, knowing eyes, glances at the blood dripping between my fingers from the hole in my gut. I sit heavily.

"We can't stop, we have to go!" Wendy is frantic, pulling at me.

I look up at her. "Wendy, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

I take my hands off my wound. She screams, tears dripping on my face. "No! Oh, God, NO!"

I grasp her hand, smearing bright red blood on her white skin. "Yes."

"But we can fix it! We can –"

"No, Wendy. There's too much gone. It can't be fixed." I turn my head to Virgil. "When I'm dead, hide me. For the love of all that's holy, don't let them find me."

Virgil leans in, rests a hand on my arm. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, son." My vision starts to swim, and I slump back. _The stars are beautiful tonight_. Wendy's clinging to me, sobbing. When Virgil tries to make her let go, she screams and fights him. "Charon, don't go!"

"I'm sorry. I have to. I'm…sorry."

I used to think that people were full of shit when they said that before you die, you saw your life flash before your eyes. Too bad I won't be able to tell them I was wrong. It must be only a few seconds, but it feels like hours, years. There's a flurry of images, and I snatch at them, try to focus:

A beautiful woman, tangled red hair…smiling down at me

A stern man, holding her back, as she reaches for me, screaming - _Don't let them take my boy!_

An angry sergeant looming over me, smacks my face with an open palm

A brown-haired little boy, nose bloody, crying

My hands, cut up, bruised up

My platoon-mates, joking, punching one another

A dark-haired woman, underneath me, eyes closed, mouth open

A kiss, the taste of vodka, stale cigarettes

A rifle bucks in my hands, into my shoulder

A happy blond woman, running her hands through my hair

Bright red blood on pavement

A group of men in military uniforms – _You've been chosen for a very special project, O'Connor_

Fluorescent lights flickering

Cold floors

An operating table

A man in a lab coat

A man, eyes wide, my hands around his throat, squeezing

My contract, folded, in a pocket of a lab coat

A sea of faces, each blurring into the next

A building, abandoned, Geiger counter ticking wildly

A clump of red hair in my hand

My arms, peeling, skin sloughing off

Following a caravan down a dusty trail

Ahzrukhal, laughing.

Eyes looking up at me, deep brown, terrified

My ruined face in a cracked mirror

My corner at the Ninth Circle

Mallie laughing, spattered with blood

Forcing her over the picnic table, her warm, squirming body beneath me

My calloused palm, connecting with her soft cheek

Her heavy-lidded eyes. " _Hurt me. Please_."

Oasis, her skin, soft moans in the dark

Her mounting me, soft breasts bouncing

A dusty trail, following behind her

A chubby, dirty baby, crying

Virgil kissing Wendy at their wedding

Mallie, smiling at me. _Oh, you've come back for me!_

I reach for her, but my arm doesn't move. _So heavy._

"I love you, Charon." She says.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. _I love you too. Oh, God, how I love you._

She takes my hand in hers, kisses my cheek.

In the darkness, I see a light, so bright it hurts.

As I rush into it, softly, softly she whispers…

"Hush now. Go to sleep."


	36. Epilogue

_Virgil_

It won't ever be the same – but nothing is.

We aren't comfortable with each other, but we have no one else. There's always time, although there's a limit to the wounds time can heal. I found out that there's no such thing as forgetting. Dad told me that once before, but I didn't listen. As it turns out, there's a difference between knowing and understanding.

The first place we went was the Citadel. I remember the scribe – the same woman that showed up on our doorstep a few months ago. Wendy talks to her, shows her the Pip-boy, and the scribe downloads the map data off of it, face as bright as a kid's on Christmas morning.

I don't know where we'll go next. We'll check in with Wendy's family I guess, then head north, or west. Maybe south, across the river. We haven't decided yet.

It's fitting, now that I think about it. My birth mother left everything she ever knew – for what reason, we never found out. Now I'm leaving everything I've ever known. It's a shitty legacy, but I suppose it's more than most people have, really.

I miss Mom. I miss Dad. I've never believed in a god or an afterlife – religion wasn't all that important to either of them – but at least Dad doesn't have to suffer without her any more.

* * *

 **Five Months Ago**

 _Maleficent_

"I'm selfish."

I'm curled up in his lap. We're sitting on the porch; he's rocking us back and forth in his chair. "Tell me something I don't know," He jokes. A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth. Every now and then, he'll give me a puff on it. I don't trust myself to hold one of my own any more without burning myself. Too weak.

I have good days and bad days. On the bad days, it hurts just to breathe. On the good days I have enough energy to fidget, to want to get out of the house. It's a good day.

"I don't want to die." I squirm in his arms.

He sighs. "No one does, Mallie."

"It's funny," I say. "This isn't how I thought I'd die. Old, in pain."

He shifts, nervously. "How'd you think you'd die?"

"Violently. Shot, stabbed, blown up." I'd had countless dreams of watching myself bleeding out in the dust, like the legions of faceless raiders I'd dispatched by slipping my knife in between their ribs. "I didn't expect to live this long, either."

He chuckles. "I could say the same." He pulls out another cigarette, and lights it with the cherry of the old one, tossing the butt in the dust beyond the porch. He holds it to my lips gently, and waits patiently as I slowly inhale. We sit for a few minutes, enjoying each other's company.

"I'm scared." I blurt out. Tears well up in my eyes, and roll down my cheeks. "I want to take you with me."

He holds me close and kisses the top of my head. "I would follow, if I could." I remember all those times, when I was deciding where we should go next. No matter what I chose, he'd say, 'Where you go, I will follow.' I don't know if it was a scripted response ingrained from nearly a century of servitude, or whether it was a phrase tailored to me, to us, to our relationship.

"If I could stay, I would. Even if it was like this for me, forever. Just so I could be with you." I would go through an eternity of pain just to stay.

"I know. I would do the same for you." He says, gazing off into the distance. The sky is pink, purple, and orange. Sunsets here are beautiful, and I ask to be brought outside to watch them. It's one of the few pleasures I have left. I can't keep much food down anymore, and my body is either nearly numb with Med-X or wracked with pain, searing my guts from the inside out.

"I can't feel it anymore." I say.

"What?" he asks, concerned.

"The Darkness." I realized it some time ago. Something that had been with me my whole life had vanished, like smoke on the wind. It puzzled me, because I didn't miss it. The place it occupied was filled with something else. Meaning? Purpose? Maybe both. Lots of happy memories.

"It's ironic," I muse.

"What's ironic?" he asks.

"How buying a man set me free."

He smiles. "You are my wild thing." He rocks us gently.

"I only wish that I could've done the same for you." I say thickly, my chest tightening painfully. I'm coming close to crying again.

"You have given me more than I ever thought to ask for." He's stroking my hair slowly, lovingly.

The horizon is darkening, and the stars are coming out. It gets cold quickly at night out here, and because of my illness, he can't depend on me to help him stay warm. "Let's get inside. It's getting chilly." Gently he rises, pulls me close to him. He buries his face in my hair and takes a long, deep breath.

I used to think that meaning was something that you have to find, but it's not true. I watch the sun set every night, and despite the pain, I feel what can only be described as joy. That feeling – the feeling of grandeur – it doesn't come from God, or Nature. It comes from inside of you.

When we met, our hearts were dark, our souls broken.

But light can be shined into dark places.

And broken things can be fixed.


End file.
